Benediction
by Lucy Van Pelt
Summary: Buffy and Spike spend the holidays together, welcome a blessed event and contemplate normal domesticity. Part Four of the Series that began with Protection. *Complete* My thanks to all who read and reviewed, especially to those who reviewed.
1. Default Chapter

TITLE:  Benediction

AUTHOR:  Lucy Van Pelt

PAIRING:  Buffy and Spike

SUMMARY:  Desperately in love, Buffy and Spike spend the holidays together, welcome a blessed event and contemplate normal domesticity, not realizing that underneath the white picket fence of their dream life, there are wounding spears.  Part Four of the series that started with _Protection._

SPOILERS:  None.  

DEDICATION:  For Faith, Froggie, Kaitie, Amita and Lynn who, very gently, found ways to kick me in the butt and get me to the computer to write this fic.  **HUGE huggles for my Fly Girls!**

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  This is the fourth and final installment of my series.  Thank you all for the kind reviews.  Maybe now I can start that Pokemon fic I've been contemplating.  

CHAPTER ONE

The bed is quaking beneath her.

This is Buffy's first thought as she is instantly zapped awake in the early morning hours of a Sunday, late in December.  The figure beside her shakes and trembles violently in his sleep.  His limbs stretch out as his hands grasp at nothing, as though he is trying to strangle the air.  Though it is always a shock to wake up and find him in this state, she is getting used to it; this is the sixth five a.m. she has greeted finding Spike wracked by night terrors.

"Sh…honey, it's OK," Buffy says softly.  She is very cautious in how she wakes him.  She remembers an old urban legend about waking people from nightmares. If it's done too quickly, the dreamer might die.  But what if the dreamer is already dead?  She shakes him gently by the shoulders.  "Spike!  Come on, honey.  It's all right.  You're just having a bad dream.  That's all.  Wake up, honey."

He springs to a seated position in a gasp as his eyes widen in confusion, looking at the darkness.  He rocks back and forth as his eyes dart around until finally his shoulders untense and relax under her caress.  His chest expands with breath he's not supposed to have and Buffy swears there are beads of sweat under her fingers.

"You OK, baby?"  she asks, trying to guide him back down beside her.

"Yeah.  Just give us a second,"  he says, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth as he rides out the remainder of the terror.  He catches a glimpse of the clock.  "Five o'clock," he notes, his words filtered through the spaces between his fingers.

"Yeah, like clockwork,"  she says, settling her chin down on his shoulder.

He finally molds himself back into her embrace, still flinching from the affects of the dream.  Buffy strokes a calming hand down the length of his muscular arm.  He can't quite return a similar touch.  He is content to lie in her arms with her kisses on his still furrowed brow.

"Can you talk about it this time?"  she asks, though she knows what the answer will be.

He stiffens.  "I'm not ready to share just yet."

"If you tell me, then maybe you'll stop having them."

"Lovely thought, but no."

He swings his form around until his back is arched against her bowed body.  Her fingers make deep trenches through his stiff hair.  He holds his pillow, but he does not hold her.  Her arms are around him; that is touch enough.

"Can you at least tell me something?"  Buffy asks as her lover seems to be quieting down at last.

She feels rigidity in his muscles as he braces against her inquiry.  "'Bout what?  The weather?  My opinion of George Bush?  The incessant Gap ads on TV, yes.  My dream, no."

"I just want to know…is it about me?"  she whispers as her fingers play around the shell of his ear.

She knows about vampires and their hearing, how it's magnified ten times, maybe more, by that of human hearing.  She wonders sometimes if he hears dog whistles, distant distress signals, her own heartbeat from miles away.   She doesn't need vampiric hearing or any kind of telepathy to know the answer to her question.  The reply comes in the form of tears, always.  There is no audible sobbing.  She can feel the moisture splat onto her knuckles as she holds him.

If only she did know, he thinks to himself.  If only she knew how night after night he lies in secret torment.  In his dream he stands at a precipice, with heat and flames surging all around him.  He sees the tear-streaked face of his beloved, pleading with him, begging him for…something.  He can hear the words as they tumble out of her mouth, but something is lost in the translation.  It just sounds like noise to him and there is a great deal of sound all around.  The earth is trembling and roaring from gaping holes all around.  He takes Buffy in his arms.  It has all the feel of an embrace, but it is more of a desperate clutch.  It is a farewell.  He bends his face close to her neck and he bites down.  She does not resist.  She wants this.  She holds his head to her and he can feel her tensing against the injury and instinctively trying to fight for her life, but eventually she goes limp in his arms, all of her blood now flowing through him

And he isn't sorry.

Until he really wakes up and he feels her arms around him and he hears her voice.  She calls him darling and sweetheart.  She strokes his hair.  She calms his fears.  She's a lullaby in and of herself.  But still…the dream…

"Just go back to sleep, sweetheart,"  she urges through tired lips.

The morning hides itself behind the guise of night at this hour.  But things change quickly behind the scenes.  The stage manager that is the dawn obscures the view of the stars in a violet rendering, the sun burgeoning against the arrangement of blinking sword carriers not ready to be issued off stage when the main attraction appears.  The sun that rises, the sun that peeks with its "is it ok to come out yet?" teasing over the horizon.  The sun he wishes would burn him whenever he has that dream.

He finds resistance against threats to his immortality in her embrace.  And she seeks out eternity in his love for her, and just how far it will go, every time she lies beside him.

The mood at the Bronze is decidedly festive this night, its temper dictated by the presence of glowing white tree lights draping from the bar and plastic Santas and snowmen positioned strategically throughout the hulk of the space.  It's Christmastime again in Sunnydale, though it may as well be the Fourth of July.  The thermometer seems loath to edge below the upper 70's.  The female patrons who swirl on the dance floor wear the brief tee shirts and halter tops of the summer over their tight denim blue jeans.  The men jump around in their light cotton trousers and short sleeve shirts.  All are sweaty in their continued grinding on the dance floor and, two by two, leave the crowded space to adjourn to their tables for refreshment.  Water is the most frequently requested libation of the night, that and a relatively new concoction enjoying immense popularity with the young set; Red Bull and vodka.  Buffy Summers has served this peculiar beverage quite frequently and knows what affect it produces: very annoying, alert drunks.  She has overheard two guys approximately her age ramble on for about fifteen minutes about how they might build a replica of the Great Wall of China using matchbooks from the bar.  When Buffy passed by their table last, they had begun their task, but seemed to have been distracted by two women who were imbibing the same drink and presently they are entwining their perspiring bodies in front of the band's massive speakers.

            Buffy stands by the bar, her fist curled under her chin, staring wistfully at the dancers.  This was supposed to have been her night off and she had so many things planned.   But as always, work got in the way and she needed the overtime.  It is going to be a very Spartan Christmas this year.  The rent went up by $50 as of December 1, something she hadn't planned for, and Dawn has been asking for a laptop computer, something she can't begin to pay for.  She is so desperate to make this a memorable Christmas for her sister that Spike's offers to "nick one at Best Buy" are becoming more and more tempting.   "Good thing Little Bit just wants a laptop.  They're a lot easier to slip under the old duster than a regular desktop,"  he told her just last night.

            As she's standing there with her back turned to the rear entrance, she feels her bottom being grabbed roughly and spins around with a jab at the ready for the offender.  The would-be molester ducks before her fist can connect with his face.  It is a face she is quite familiar with, the first one she sees in the morning and the last one she sees at night.  It's funny how he always seems to know when she's thinking about him and when she wants him around.

            "Now, I ask you,"  Spike says in mock disgust, "is that anyway to treat the man you love?"

            "Sorry, honey,"  she replies.  "But that is my standard treatment for unknown ass grabbers."  She steps forward and replaces a curlicue of hair that has fallen onto his forehead.   "What are you doing here?"

            He thinks the hair-tucking gesture is a silent entreaty for him to move a little closer and he encircles her waist with one arm.  "Oh, I had some time to kill and nothing else to, so I thought I would see how my best girl was doing.   And I needed to bring you this,"  he says, showing the small, silver purse in his hand.   

            She rolls her eyes.  "My tip purse!  Did I forget that thing again?"

            "Obviously,"  he returns.

            She takes the purse and snaps it to her belt.  "Honestly, what would I do without you?"

            Spike thinks a minute about this.  "Probably masturbate a lot."

            She slaps his arm playfully.  "You're so rude!"

            He grins naughtily and inches closer to her.  "Yeah.  You should slap me."

            "I should.  Every chance I get,"  she says, moving into his arms.  

            "Then why don't you do it, love?"  he asks close to her face, letting the scent of his freshly sipped beer perfume the air between them.

            "Because right now I want to kiss you,"  she smiles.

            "What makes you think I want to kiss _you?"  he asks, returning the smile._

            "You don't have a choice."

            "How's that?"  he asks, cocking his head.

            "You're standing under the mistletoe."

            Both look up.  Tucked in the rafters, seemingly miles from there they are standing, is a sprig of green, really parsley, but from that great a distance, a perfectly believable stand-in for mistletoe.  

            His lips fuse with hers and she grasps the back of his head where his hair is fine and short like a soft bristled brush under her touch.  His hands move across her back and for a moment she forgets where she is and begs him in her mind to pull up her shirt so that he can touch her.  She knows this is what he wants as well, but he is showing tremendous, admirable restraint.  As their bodies come together, she can feel him growing inside of his jeans.  

Finally Spike breaks the kiss.  He smiles as he finds her eyes darkening deeper and deeper with arousal and teases her by grinding against her, almost imperceptibly to the casual onlooker.   "You know, you're standing in about the same spot as you were the first time I saw you."

            "Really?  You remember where I was standing?"  she asks, still wanting his mouth.

            "Well, the place has changed a bit since Anya's ex decided to give it a facelift, but, yeah.  I think you were standing right about here.  You were dancing, actually.  You and Red.  I thought to myself, 'That's her.  That's the little minx I've come to kill.'"

            Buffy chuckles.  "Mmm…how romantic.  I'll bet that's a How We Met story Ann Landers has never heard."

            "Maybe we should write to her, then.  It certainly puts all those soddin' World War II British-nurse-meets-nancy-boy-Yank stories to shame."

            She looks at him thoughtfully before pulling him closer.  "Because no one would ever believe it."

            He chuckles throatily.  "I think the roster of true believers begins and ends with you and me, pet."

            As he gives into her embrace, she begins to sense that he is leaning on her more for support than out of affection.  His chin droops lazily on her shoulder as she clasps her hands around the back of his head.

            "Did you get some rest this afternoon after I left?"  Buffy asks.

            "Not a whole lot.  The Nibblet invited over her coterie of chatty mates this afternoon."

            "I told her to keep the noise down in the afternoons since you weren't sleeping through the night."

            "No matter.  I didn't catch up on my sleep, but I am now abreast of all the latest gossip at Sunnydale High."  He draws a mock breath.  "Did you know that Eric Daniels has dumped Jill Carlesco for new girl Natalie Simpson?  And that Jill has started dating Michael Heslep, a boy she never would have talked to a year ago, but now finds fascinating because she's so hopelessly on the rebound?"

            "You're kidding, of course?  See?  The things you miss when you let your subscription to the school paper expire."

            "Don't worry.  Your sister supplies me with the live feed every day.  I'll keep you posted on any breaking news.  Such as, on the homefront, Nibblet's going out with Travis tonight."

            Buffy bristles a bit.  "On a school night?  I don't think so,"  Buffy says.

            "Relax, Buffy.  It's just a library date.  I just dropped her off there.  I told her I'd be back for her in about two hours."

            "She's spending almost as much time in the library as I did when I was fifteen,"  Buffy says in dismay as she runs her thumbs along the stitching on Spike's lapels.

            "Yeah.  Loser!"  Spike chides playfully, grabbing her nose between his middle and index fingers.

            "Hey!  She's just being Madame Social Butterfly.  I was trying to save the world then."

            "Oh.  A Super Loser,"  he teases, extending the pointed tip of his tongue through gnashed teeth.   

            "You're really rackin' up the rotten points tonight, Spike,"  she says, teasing the tip of his nose with hers.  "Big Bad factor in effect."

            "Always."

            They kiss again, their bodies moving roughly against each other, their mouths open and slanting over and over again.  Buffy thinks that if they are careful, his duster may be enough of a shield for him to slip inside of her and if she sits just so on the stool beside her, no one will notice...She has to call a halt to this right away or she will lose all semblance of rationale and they will be making love in a public place, her workplace, and she will be fired.  After all this time, he is still finding ways to kill her.

            "Honey, honey…stop…stop!"  she pleads with him breathlessly.

            "Can't,"  he says, dragging his lips across hers, "We're still under the mistletoe."

Halfway across the room, a silent quartet sits at a table, watching the spectacle at the bar with open-mouthed stares.  They just took their seats minutes before and it didn't take them long to zero in on their friend and fearless leader being heavily snogged by the demon they are still reluctant to identify as the Slayer's lover.  For them, tonight's voyeurism is tempered by a heavy eww factor that some are better at suppressing than others.  The most vocal critic is the first to speak.

            "You know,"  Xander says, "I can get used to just about anything.  New marshmallows in Lucky Charms.  A new President Bush in the White House.  Heck, I even got used to the taste of New Coke.  But that…that…"  His shoulders convulse in a mock dry-heave.  "That's just insanely gross."

            "They're still at the bunny stage,"  Willow remarks.

            "Hey!"  Anya interjects.  "Like what we're seeing couldn't get any scarier!"

            "What I meant was,"  Willow is quick to explain, "is that they're still at that if-we're-in-the-same-room-together,-we-have-to-be-making-out stage."

            "Well, I hope they get out of it soon,"  Xander glowers as he crosses his arms across his chest.  "Because I'm about to lose not only the lunch I had today, but the one from yesterday and the day before yesterday."

            "They're really into each other.  No doubt about that,"  Willow says.

            "And, I think, really in love,"  Tara declares.

            "Yeah, that too.  I didn't really believe it until they were over at our apartment the other night—

            "Wait, wait, wait…"  Xander says, holding up his hand.  "You guys invited them over to your apartment?  Both of them?  Together?"

            "Well, yeah.   Buffy had suggested that we do something, you know, couply, because since she's been dating Spike she's felt kind of isolated from us.   So we rented a movie and ate dinner together.  Well, we ate.  Spike just kind of…slurped,"  Willow says.

            "B-but he was really polite and nice and all,"  Tara says.  "H-he asked us nicely to heat up his blood and afterwards rinsed out the mug."

            "And he was really funny, too.  What was that story he was telling?  About the guard outside Buckingham Palace?"

            "Oh, yeah!  The Palace guard!"  Tara says, catching a laugh with her hand.

            "O.K….Spike jumped out at this Palace Guard one night.  And you know how they're supposed to be all still and quiet all the time and not react to anything?  Well, when he saw Spike in his game face, he didn't try to run or hide.  He just stood there like he was supposed to---

            "An…and Spike heard s-something falling on the pavement."

            "The guy was so scared he peed his pants!  And Spike was laughing too hard to bite him so he just walked away!"

            "What did he yell up to the balcony before he left?   Something like…"

            "Oh, I know!"  Willow cups a hand over her mouth.  "'Hey, Vicki!  You better get one of your nannies out here.   Soldier boy needs a fresh nappie.'"

            While Tara and Willow collapse on each other in a fit of giggles, Anya and Xander look on with parted lips and blank stares.  When it is perceived that their audience is not as amused as they are, the two witches recover themselves.

            "I guess it was the way S-Spike told it,"  Tara says sheepishly, playing with one of the tassels on her macramé purse.  

            "So, the moral of this story is, if you're ever cornered by a vicious, blood sucking vampire, just wet your pants and hope that the guy is a happy-go-lucky kind of vamp who will later relate the story in an amusing anecdote during a dinner party,"  Xander says.

            "Actually, honey, you may have already done that.  Remember last year when we went on Patrol with Riley?"  Anya says, lowering her eyes.

            "Huh?  Anya!"  Xander scolds.  

            "Well, honey, you had just had a Big Gulp and I warned you not to drink so much soda before Patrol.  And there was just a little bit of leakage.  Nothing too noticeable."

            "I DID NOT wet my pants on Patrol,"  Xander expostulates angrily.   "Not then or ever!

            "OK, honey.  Must have been the moonlight shining on something…shiny.  I didn't mean to make you angry."  Anya strokes her humiliated boyfriend's arm.

            "Look, can we talk about something not related to public urination and Spike?  Seems like whenever we get together these days, we're always talking about Spike and Buffy, Spike and Buffy, Spike and Buffy.  There has to be something else to talk about.  Anya and I _are getting married in the New Year."_

            "Oh!  Wedding!  We can talk wedding,"  Willow brightens.  "Have you decided what the bridesmaids are going to wear yet, Anya?  Because I think the last time I talked to you, you had picked out some gowns that you thought were too Buffy-friendly."

            "Yeah, I scrapped those dresses.  Back to square one.  Can't have Buffy looking better than the bride.  As it is now, everyone's going to be looking at the best man's hair.   Do you think if I asked him nicely and maybe slipped him a little cash, Spike might tone the color down a little?  Just for the ceremony?"

            "Spike's going to be your best man, Xander?"  Willow asks.

            "No!  No!  Absolutely not!  Anya, where in the hell did you get that idea from?"

            "Well, he's the only guy you know.  Except for Giles.  And I've already asked him to escort me down the aisle.  He can't do both.  That would make it even more glaringly obvious that you don't have any male friends."

            "I do so have male friends.  There's…there's…"  He thinks for a minute.  "Oz!  I could ask Oz to be my best man.  I'm sure he'd come back to Sunnydale to be in my wedding.  He'd be a great best man…"  He watches Willow's expression crumble before his eyes.  "But I'm not going to ask him because…that would be awkward, wouldn't it?"

            "God…we're all so inter-related.  We're like some dangerously inbred clan of hillbillies,"  Willow notes.

            "I think Spike would make a nice best man,"  Anya says.  "Buffy says that he has his own tuxedo.  Armani, even."

            "I'm not asking Spike to be my best man.  PERIOD!  I'll ask someone from work.  Joe, maybe."

            "Joe?  Who the hell is Joe?"  Anya asks pointedly.  

            "I don't know his last name.  We're not that close.  I think it might be Ramstein.  Or Flores."

            "They're both so similar,"  Anya says with a devious smile.

            Buffy comes up for air from Spike's kiss, feeling a little light-headed.  She slowly begins to realize that someone is speaking to her.

            "Uh…Buffy…before your boyfriend suctions off the rest of your face, could you take some time out of your fevered embrace to go over to table five?"

            Buffy grins.  "Do you hear someone talking?"

            "Yeah.  I think it's wanker boy behind the bar,"  Spike replies, kissing her softly down her cheek.

            "Thought so,"  Buffy says with a note of dismay in her voice.  "Honey, I gotta work."

            "I know.  It's always work, work, work with you,"  he says, reluctantly relinquishing her to her duty.

            "All play and no work makes Buffy a dead girl,"  Buffy reminds him, trailing a finger down his ultra-sensitive neck.  "Hey.  The gang's here.  Why don't you go over to their table and have some quality Scooby time."

            "Oh, great.  And perhaps at some point you can serve me a Scotch and holy water."  He picks up his beer from the bar and takes a lengthy swig.

            "Go easy on those, OK?  I don't want you driving my little sister around with a buzz."

            "Not to worry, Buffy.  This is the one and only of the evening.  I promise.  Got a flask of fresh piggy blood for back-up.  I watched the butcher drain the sow myself." 

            "That's entertainment."

            He smiles as he thinks to himself, "That's what passes for entertainment in Spike's world since you stole my heart, you little demon."

            As Spike strides over to the Scooby table, Xander is the first to notice is impending arrival.

            "Oh, God.  Here comes Slim Shady now,"  he glowers, hunching his shoulders.

            "Hello, all,"  Spike says, swooping down among them in a flourish of black leather.  "What are we on about tonight?"

            "We were just talking about you being Xander's best man in our wedding,"  Anya announces.

            "Anya!  You know, sometimes I think that vengeance demon quirk of yours never really went away,"  Xander says.

            "Harris!"  Spike says in mock jubilation.  "I never knew you felt that way about me!  I'd be honored to stand up for you at your nuptials to Chatty Kathy Capitalist.  I've even got my own penguin suit."

            "I know.  Armani,"  Anya says with a grin.

            Spike raises his bottle to Anya and takes a hearty swig.

            "Spike, you're not going to be my best man.  You're not even invited to the wedding!"

            "Xander!"  Willow chides, her eyes telegraphing a warning glare.

            "Oh, really?  Well, perhaps I'm not on the guest list per se, but I'll be there's an invitation just waitin' to be addressed to Buffy Summers and guest.  And guess who that guest will be?"

            "Well, Buffy must like her guests extra crispy.  Because it's going to be a daytime ceremony.  In the park.  Out under the blazing hot sun."

            "No!  Not a daytime ceremony,"  Anya says.  "At night.  In St. Catherine's Chapel."

            "Since when?"  Xander asks.

            "I saw the place a few weeks ago.  It's charming, kind of rustic.  Not too many religious icons inside that scream, 'You're in a church.  Get out your rosary beads and pray, you heathen.'  And it has a wide center aisle that's big enough for the train on my gown."

            "I-it's a nice chapel,"  Tara says.  "It would be really pretty at night.  All lit up with candles."

            "Oh, I agree,"  Willow remarks.  "I'm not much on the Christian symbolism myself.  I mean, hello, Jewish Wiccan lesbian here.  But that place is sooo pretty.  Kinda secluded.  Just the right mix of Gothic elegance and modern functionality."

            "I don't want a church wedding,"  Xander opines with a frown.  "If we're going to do the church thing, I'd much rather just show up at the house of the Justice of the Peace at 2:00 in the morning, dressed in our pajamas and with the ink on our license still drying as we say our 'I do's.'"

            "Why don't we go the whole romantic route and fly to Vegas.  Find one of those those drive through chapels where people make it legal talking through the speaker of a fat Elvis sculpture."  Anya says through gnashed teeth.

            Spike sits quietly in wonder, looking at his beer, wishing that there were ten more in front of him.  As the bickering couple's talk swells around him, blocking out even the music being piped in from the speakers overhead, he thinks about why he's there.  He has been included in this exclusive circle of Buffy's friends for over a year now.  The transaction from arch enemy to comrade in arms was not an easy one and still his loyalties are questioned, he is certain.  Even he has to ask himself sometimes, "Do I really belong with these people?"  He feels very distant from their talk, from their troubles, from their nonsensical observances of daily minutia.  Often there is in him some urge to stand up and scream and break away.  This can't be his life now.  William didn't become a vampire, get corralled by a government-implanted chip and fall in love with the Slayer just to sit and hear a former demon and a current window licker squabble about a wedding that has doom written all over it in permanent magic marker.  Hasn't he been punished enough?

            While he's sitting there, he feels slender arms embrace him from behind.  He catches a hint of vanilla scent in the air, more pungent than the smell of stale beer and long-spent cigarette butts.  A warm, sweet kiss is delivered beside his ear.

            "How's my baby doing?"  Buffy purrs into his ear.

            He gathers her arms around his aged leather coat.  "Baby's doing fine, love.  Just talking about Xander and Anya's wedding."

"Oh!"  Buffy says brightly.  "Have you guys thought about St. Catherine's Chapel.  I love that place."

"We were just talking about that.  Your Spidey senses must have been working a minute ago,"  Willow says.

Buffy laughs from a secret joke in her head.  "Oh, God…I was just thinking about when we were planning on getting married, Spike."

"What?" Xander says.

"Huh?"  Willow asks.

"Pardon?"  Spike spits out.

Buffy rolls her eyes.  "Silly!  Willow's spell.  You and me all snuggly in Giles' living room?   Plastic bride and groom who were the perfect little us?"  she says, smoothing his hair back.

Spike takes a breath.  "Uh…yeah.  I remember."

"Spike lips…lips of Spike…"  she says breathily, giving him a quick smack on the mouth.

"Hmmm…Buffy taste in my mouth…"  he smiles, returning the kiss.

As she settles into his arms under the watchful eyes of the embarrassed quartet, he nestles his nose in her floral-scented hair and wraps his arms around her as tightly as he can.  His whole universe in contained in this little person.  She seems so fragile, yet as she returns the embrace, he feels the strength flowing through her.  The strength that used to send him flying into brick walls and once put him in a wheel chair.  It's that same strength that seems to carry him from day to day, that lifts him out of the rubble his life once was and makes things right, day after day.  He loves her with his entire being, so much so that he swears his heart sometimes jumps in his chest.  He feels something move in him whenever she's around, something that reigns over all other feelings he keeps deep inside of him.  It's something he has never felt before and it's something that tells him he really never loved anyone until he loved Buffy Summers.

A stiff breeze rattles the small stained glass window on the wall overlooking the cramped meeting space in the basement of St. Catherine's Chapel.   Around a rectangular table, a group of a dozen parishioners sits, armed with Styrofoam cups of tepid coffee, date books and well-sharpened number two pencils.  The group consists mostly of women, all wearing non-church, but still respectable relaxed casual ensembles.  The men still wear their after church football watching uniforms of jeans and sweatshirts.  A small artificial Christmas tree blinks its multi-colored lights cheerfully in the corner.  On the wall beside it hangs a picture of Jesus sitting on a rock, his hands clasped, his face hopeful, yet full of fear.

"New business,"  Mr. Chapman announces.  He recognizes a stocky, red-faced gentleman sitting in the corner.  "Yes, Stanley?"

Stanley Walliston stands, notebook in hand.  "The youth group still needs chaperones for their ski trip to Big Bear on the 7th of January.  If anyone is interested, there's a sign-up sheet in the vestibule."

"The car wash must have been a success, then,"  Mr. Chapman notes.

"Tremendous,"  Mr. Walliston says with great pride.  "We raised over $500 in one afternoon."

"And are you planning another one before the trip?"  Mr. Chapman asks.

"It depends on how dirty the cars get between now and then,"  Mr. Walliston replies.

There is a slight tittering of laughter among the parishioners.   Mr. Chapman resumes the meeting with a smile.  

"Anyone else?  New business?"

A woman in a teal sweater set raises her hand.

"Phyllis?"  Mr. Chapman nods.

Phyllis Wright clears her throat.  "The Women's Club will be asking for Campbell's Soup labels again for the local food pantry.  And it's hard to think about this now, with it being so early in the holiday season, but we will be taking the Christmas tree down on January 6, so we'll need some of the sturdier men in the congregation to help out."

"Fine.  I will see if anyone is available at the next Pastor Parish meeting,"  Mr. Chapman says.  "Anyone else?  New business?"

Again, Phyllis Wright raises her hand.  Timidly, she begins, "Yes.  Can we talk a little about the sesquicentennial?"

The room is suddenly prickling with a certain discomfort that everyone can feel, as though an uninvited guest has just made his presence known.

"I know this isn't something we like to talk about, but…if it's going to happen—

"Well, the church will mark its 150th birthday next year.  That is certain.  But if you're referring to the events surrounding the sesquicentennial, we have it all in writing.  The earth will open and all of us will perish," Mr. Chapman says softly.

The parishioners look down in their collective doom as silence descends on the gathering.  For a few minutes, the blinking Christmas lights are louder than anything in the room.  

"But the child?"  Mr. Walliston asks.

Mr. Chapman's lips form a straight line.  He looks over at the stern-faced woman to his left who has dutifully been recording the minutes of the meeting since the first official word was spoken.  "Perhaps Mrs. Singleton can shed some light on this."

Mrs. Singleton flashes an assured smile as she looks confidently about the room.  "The child will be delivered to us in plenty of time for the sacrifice."

"It has to be soon.  That thing is only going to get bigger,"  Mrs. Wright says worriedly, looking at the saucer-sized hole in the middle of the parquet floor.  Soon all eyes are on the hole as well.  A curl of smoke twirls menacingly in the air above the opening as a gurgle is heard from down below.

"The child will be conceived and will be born,"  Mrs. Singleton says sharply.  "I have my sources."  


	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

The escalator moves jerkily to the second tier of the mall.  Buffy shifts her packages restlessly, wishing that she could just run up ahead of everyone else.  But presently a frowning woman with two unruly children is blocking her way.  In the thirty seconds Buffy has been on the escalator, the woman has threatened the children with bodily harm at least twenty times, but apparently, "I swear to God!  I'm going to whip you both until Christmas day if you don't behave!"  isn't much of a warning for them.

Buffy has her own unruly child to contend with.  Spike stands beside her, drumming his fingers on the railing as it glides beneath his hand.  He jostles the Williams-Sonoma shopping bag, nearly banging it into the backside of one of the children in front of them.

"Honey, I know you're bored,"  Buffy says softly as she touches his hand.  "I just have two more shops to go to and then we can go home, OK?"

"You said that sixteen shop ago, Buffy,"  Spike says with a dramatic sigh.

"Well, you can blame the sluggish economy for all the 50% sales going on.  Anyway, I told you that you didn't have to come with me."

"Yeah, but that's only because we haven't been spending a lot of time together lately.  Between your 72-hour work week at the Bronze and your moonlighting in the cemetery."

She knows this is true.  When she gets home from the Bronze, it's almost always 3:00 in the morning.  If she goes on Patrol afterward, sometimes that puts her arrival time at 5:00.  Here lately she has been coming in just as the sun is cresting on the horizon.  It's been almost a week since they have made love and that is unusual for them.  But Buffy knows it's too soon to start singing "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" just yet.  Once Christmas is over, things will get back to normal, she has promised him.

All this extra work for one day out of the calendar year seems ludicrous to him.  He has begged and pleaded with her to not buy him anything at all.  When she keeps on about it, he will suggest something frivolous like a Chia pet or a Clapper.  The other night he was watching a show about Hugh Hefner and mentioned something about wanting a silk smoking jacket and he briefly caught the snap of a lightbulb going on over Buffy's   head.  He just hopes that she has also purchased a pipe so that he can complete the look.

Big Bad is spending Christmas with his two little bunnies, he thinks with a smile that turns into a laugh when he really reflects of the absurdity of what he has just though.

"What?  What's so funny?"  Buffy asks.

"Oh, nothing."  Then his thoughts turn naughty as he imagines Buffy in a bunny outfit, doing the "dip" while she serves him a drink from a platter.  "Will there be anything else, sir?"  she asks huskily.  "Just this,"  he answers.  And suddenly she's not wearing the bunny outfit anymore.  And he's finding uses for that powder puff tail that tease and delight her…  "Mmmm…"  he says aloud.

Buffy looks at him quizzically, but says nothing.  Where ever he is, he seems to be enjoying himself.

They have finally finished the climb to the second floor and Buffy pulls out the list from her purse one more time.  "OK, we got Xander and Anya covered down at Williams-Sonoma.  Now Willow and Tara…I'm thinking…something a little Stevie Nicksish?"

"Fine.  Let's look for a shop called the Edge of the Seventeen-Year-Old White Winged Dove then."

"I don't think we're going to find it here,"  she says with a smile, taking his hand.

"24-Hour Wicca World?"

"No."

"Lesbian Toys R Us?"

"Will you stop it!"  she says, jabbing at him playfully.

"Let's have a look at the Mall Guide over here.  Oh!  Men's Wear!  We're bound to find something for Willow there."

"Look, are you going to help me or are you just going to keep making jokes?"

"Can I do both?"  

Buffy sighs and sets down her packages as she peruses the mall guide.  There is a fair-haired girl rocking a stroller blocking her view and she politely excuses herself.  When she is finally able to get a good look at the second floor map, the girl studies her.

"Buffy?  Buffy Summers?"  the girl asks incredulously.

Buffy stares at the girl, drawing a complete blank.  "Yes?"

"Oh, my God!  I can't believe it!  I haven't seen you for ages!"

"Yeah, it's been a while…hasn't it?"  Buffy says, a disingenuous smile lighting her face as she girl dives in for a hug.  Over her shoulder, a baffled Spike mouths, "Who the hell…?"  and Buffy pantomimes a "no fucking clue" look.  

"God, it seems like yesterday that we were in Mr. Bronstein's French class, laughing at him reading _Candide with that ridiculous Bronx accent,"  the girl continues._

"Yeah, that was a scream,"  Buffy says.

"I'll never forget the night I was coming out of the Bronze and that guy attacked me from behind.  You came out of nowhere and threw the guy off me like he was nothing and he just…disappeared in a pile of cardboard boxes.  I thought to myself then, 'Candyce Phelps, you're one lucky girl to know someone like Buffy Summers.'  You so deserved that Class Protector award."

"Oh…thank you, Candyce,"  Buffy asks, grateful for the name-drop while simultaneously flipping through a yearbook in her mind.  Nothing about this girl jars a single memory.  There were a lot of students at Sunnydale High.  Were Xander, Willow, Oz and Cordy the only ones she ever bothered to learn the names of?   

 "So, what about you?  What have you been doing?  Is this your husband?"  Candyce asks, nodding to Spike.

"What?  No!  We're not married yet.  This is my boyfriend, Spike,"  Buffy says, thinking it peculiar that she because Candyce has excellerated her maturity that Buffy must have done also.

"Oh, hello, Spike.  Nice to meet you,"  Candyce says with scrutiny in her gaze.   "Did you go to Sunnydale High, too?"

"Me?  No.  I went to school…abroad,"  he answers.

"Oh, then how did you two meet?  At work?"

Buffy and Spike do a slow turn towards each other, knowing that if they answer yes, it would still be sort of true.

"We used to work for rival companies and they…merged at the beginning of the year."  Spike explains slowly.  "Now we work together."

"Oh really?  What do you do?"

Buffy and Spike share another wary look.  Spike is the cooler bullshitter, so she allows him to proceed.

"We take care of…pests.  We're in the business of pest removal.  Earwigs, mice, cockroaches, that sort of thing."

In the aftermath of Spike's explanation, Buffy is a little miffed at herself for passing the baton on this one.  

"So…you're…exterminators?"

Spike puffs his cheeks out.  "If you want to give it a name, yes."

"Then maybe you can help me out with the black widow spider problem I have in my basement.   They're very poisonous, you know."

"We don't do spiders,"  Spike and Buffy reply in unison.  

"Oh…"  Candyce says.  "Well, it's very interesting that you do that.   I've never had a real job, unless you count the after school thing I did at Baskin Robbins my senior year.  I got married right out of high school.  And then about six months ago, this little one happened to me,"  Candyce says, bending to extract the blissfully sleeping bundle of joy from its stroller.  She coos to the little one as it appears that he is waking and not wanting to, little fists pounding against its surfacing consciousness.  "Shh…it's OK, Matthew.  There's someone here that I want to meet.  See the pretty blond girl?  That's Buffy Summers.  She saved Mommy's life one time."

The child whimpers a little and claws at his face, blue eyes blinking, tiny lips smacking together.   Buffy takes one little hand in hers and gives it a shake.  "Hello, Matthew." 

"Would you like to hold him?  I mean, if you think about it, if it weren't for you, he wouldn't be here because I wouldn't be here."

Buffy cannot remember the last time she held a baby.  She thinks it might have been when her parents came home from the hospital with Dawn.  But that hadn't really happened at all…Suddenly the squirming child is in her arms and she is compelled to create a cradle in the crook of her elbow for him.  The baby looks up at her with wonder in his eyes.  There is actually something just to the left of Buffy's head that is registering fascination in the infant.  And in a flash, he grabs for one of Buffy's oversized silver hoops and tugs with all the might of a pro wrestler.

"Oh, owee, owee, owee,"  Buffy says, gently trying to remove the tight fist from her jewelry.

"Oh, I've put all my hoops away until Matthew is at least fourteen at this point.  They're all like crows at that age.  They just love the shiny stuff.  Come on, Matthew, honey.  Let Buffy's earring go."

"That's OK, I got it,"  Buffy says after the little one's hand has been fully disengaged from the hoop.   "Whew!  Little Bam Bam here."

"Yeah, he's a tough one.   I just started him on solids, and I think he's about ready to move onto steak and potatoes."

"Honey, I found the juicer.  It was 45% off, so I went ahead and got the coffee maker your mother wanted,"  a masculine voice says as its owner approaches.

Buffy turns to see a tall, thin young man in a baseball cap and a beige barncoat swinging an over-stuffed shopping bag at his side.

"Oh, great!  And did you find the George Foreman grill too?"  Candyce asks.

"Got that too,"  the man beams.

"Wonderful!  Stuart, this is an old friend of mine from high school.  Buffy Summers.  And this is her boyfriend, Spike."

"Oh.  Good to meet you both!  Are you out shopping today?"  he asks brightly.

No, we're building to scale miniatures of early Ford motor cars, you window licker,  Spike growls to himself.

"Oh, yes.  Shopping.  Gotta do the shopping thing.  Necessary evil this time of year,"  Buffy natters on.

Buffy hands the baby back to his rightful owner, having to disintangle the baby's fist from a lock of her golden hair.  She laughs it off as the baby settles back into his mother's arms.

"I know a lot of people think I'm too young to have a baby,"  Candyce says with a certain sadness in her voice.  "But two years ago, Stu was diagnosed with leukemia.  We didn't even think we'd be able to have a child with all the radiation treatments he had to undergo.  So, during his last remission, we took a chance.  And we got our little miracle."

Her husband purses his lips and stares uncomfortably at the floor, scuffing a black tile with the toe of his Timberland.  

"We don't know how much time we have together,"  Candyce continues.  "So we figured we might as well go for it while we had the chance.  Stu's been in remission for over a year now, but we're careful not to use words like cured just yet.  Right now we just call ourselves blessed."

Stuart begins to sniffle a little and for a moment, Buffy thinks he is about to burst into tears.  But then he says, "Oh, honey, right now I think we're being blessed with an early Christmas present from our boy.  We should probably find a changing room."

Buffy didn't want to be rude, but she thought she smelled something when she was holding Matthew, and not just the grilled knockwurst/chow mein/pizza combo wafting up from the food court below.

"That's our little pooter!"  Candyce says with apology in her eyes.  "On that note, I think I'll make my way over to the ladies room.  It was so nice to see you again, Buffy.  We should get together sometime."

"Yes, we should,"  Buffy says, the full awkwardness of the situation hitting her with full-force.

The couple make a swift departure, heading over to the restrooms between the Foot Locker and the Wicks and Things.  Buffy continues to stand there for a few minutes, watching the pair, being obviously such a pair.   She imagines when they sit down for meals at restaurants, the waiter always asks politely, "And what will your wife be having tonight?"  She thinks about their mailbox, crammed with Christmas cards, all addressed to Mr. and Mrs., with cheery return address labels in the corner.   She thinks about how they think their time together will be short and fingers the watch around her neck.  The ticking now throbs in her ears like her own heartbeat.

            "What was that?"  Spike says to her when they are alone.

            "What do you mean?"  she asks, her voice a ghost.  They have begun to walk now and are making their way past the glass storefront of a boutique whose mannequins all look like S & M aficionados.  

            He takes her free hand and gives it a squeeze.  "What you said to them."

            "What I said to them?"

            "Will you stop answering my questions with more questions.?"

            "I will when I know what it is that I said to them."

            "Sweetheart!  'We're not married…yet.'  That's what you said."

            "Oh.  I did say that, didn't I?"

            "Yes, you did."

            "Well, it's true.  We're not married yet."

            "As though to imply one day…we may be?"

            She didn't think about it that way when she said it.  Or maybe she just wasn't thinking about what she was saying at all.  It just popped out of her mouth.  But now she is seeing that her words carried some resonance, some promise for him.  She cannot say that she hasn't thought about it.  While leafing through Anya's bridal magazines she will sometimes pause over the picture of a radiant bride all decked out in a white meringue of a dress and imagine her pert and dewy face under the tulle veil.  When she wakes up next to him in the morning, or sometimes crawls into bed with him in the morning as it has been in the previous week, she knows that this is how she always wants it to be.  Just the eight to ten hours she spends at work away from him are too long some days and when she comes home to him, she knows she really is home.  If there is another person out there in the world for whom she is meant, she sometimes hopes that fate will reveal the identity of that man before she allows herself to fall more in love.

            Now they are in front of a jewelry store.  Some cruel, odd machination of circumstance has chosen this place for this particular part of their conversation and Buffy's heart surges again with that all too familiar roller coaster climb.  Willingly, she allows Spike to lead her over to the window where an array of emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and diamond rings peek out from their velvet box shells.  Her face pressed against the glass, she is dazzled by the display while thoughts of sunshine and happiness sing in her head.  She feels her lover at her side, knows his presence before he even touches her, always.  He is a shadow in his black ensemble, the scent of leather a lash against her senses.  He is standing behind her, his arms folded tightly around her torso, his head on her shoulder.  His lips touch the rim of her ear, dragging sensually as he breathes into the sensitive canal.

            "Pick the one that strikes your fancy, love.  I'll run in and buy it straight away,"  he whispers, kissing the side of her face.

            She is as an infant, infatuated with shiny things.  She reaches for the ring…

            All at once she looks at the mirror behind the display.  She sees herself, but she does not see him.  She can see the indentions his hands are making on her camel coat and the impression of his chin on her shoulder, but not him.  She catches a glimpse of two familiar figures, just behind her, walking slowly by.  She sees their smiles, just briefly, and hears the wheels of the stroller skitter across the uneven faux brick surface of the walkway.  She turns her head to see them, loaded down with packages, some tucked into the bottom of their child's vehicle along with a diaper bag and a teddy bear.

            Spike has separated himself from her, standing a part to watch her thoughts because they are becoming clearer and clearer as Candyce and Stuart and little Matthew disappear from view.

            His heart has felt many things since he fell for Buffy.  Searing pain when he was continuously denied her affections.  Soaring love, when she finally accepted him.  Absolute hopelessness when he thought he was going to lose her.  Complete jubulation when she was restored to health.  And every day he feels in his heart that this is right and this is what he wanted, even as poor romantic William so long ago.  Now his heart feels a shadow brush against it, as though the end has been revealed to it, and not to the rest of him.  This bond they have is like nothing he has ever had and he would fight to the death to keep it as is.  It is something he had worked for, bled for, almost died for.  His heart has been challenged, his very being has been challenged in their relationship.  But she has known all along what he is.  

            He heard her say the words, "we're not married yet" and he saw her hold a child.  And he saw everything.  More than a mirror could ever reveal.

            "Darling, I can go in and buy you a ring, but I can't give you everything,"  he says, utterly embarrassed at the choke in his voice.

            She hears this and her own heart gives way to an ache that shoots rays of pain down to her shoes.  Too much, too too much like the past.  The ugly past.  Her mind flashes to a conversation held years before in a moonlit graveyard.  She is struck by an unsettling wave of déjà vu.  She wants to find a brake pedal and put a stop to all thoughts of forever and love always  because it just doesn't happen.  Not to her, anyway.  

            She turns to him and sees his pained expression.  He has that anxious stare of a tennis player waiting for a serve.  She wants to hold him, cradle him, tell him everything will be all right.  But at the same time, she wants the same for herself because she is quaking inside, wanting to dissolve into tears.  But she can't.  She has to be strong.  She has to be this woman of steel or else all the barriers will come down and she will be vulnerable to attack.

            "You're my forever man,"  she says, touching his temple before he captures her hand and slides it down to his lips.

            "Am I?"  he says with urgency in his voice.

            "Always and forever,"  she says, drawing him close.

            She means it for now, he tells himself.  She doesn't realize what forever means.  Forever literally means forever to a vampire because they have the gift of everlasting unlife.   But she is not immortal.  She will die one day and he will be alone.  He would never turn her because she would not be who she is, the girl he loves, the lady whose warm body lies beside him at night and chirps about defeating the evil beasties in the world, but not him.  He is sacred to her.  He knows this when she opens her eyes in the morning and looks at him and smiles, brushing his cheek and saying, "hmmm…"

            He needs her more than she needed him that night her defenses were exhausted and she invited him in.  He needs her more than she needed him when she asked him to protect Dawn.  He needs her more than she needed him when he was the only one who knew the formula to divest her of her fever.  He needs her more than blood.

            It's as though a trap door to his life without Buffy has opened now.  He couldn't…he wouldn't be able to go on.  He knew that when he saw her fading in the hospital months before.  He ached to hold back the shadows that threatened to steal her.  And now, in the cheery atmosphere of the Christmastime mall, with all its paper mache snowmen and animatronic carollers singing tidings of comfort and great joy, he is desperate.

            _Dawn…bitty Buffy…not so much.  She will die too.  Not as soon as her sister.  How long do Slayers live?  A score and five is all.  Twenty five years.  That's the record.  Twenty is what she has now, twenty-one is what she will have in February.   I have her birthday on the calendar for the next year already.  There will be a cake and I will be there beside her, cutting into it…_

            _Twenty-five years is all I've got.  I will die.  He won't.  Not in my lifetime.  I will never, ever let him die.  He means too much to me.  He has to stay and take care of…Dawn…She's like our child.  I guess.  Though most of the time I'm the disciplinarian and he's the innocent by-stander.  He told me that he thought that Dawn was our daughter, but…_

"Excuse me,"  someone says.

            Both Slayer and vampire move away to allow a woman to pass by them with a dual stroller.  Twins.

            Buffy's gaze follows the woman and her stroller.  _Twins!_  

            "Buffy, I only want to make you happy,"  Spike tells her.  "But if you want something more…something more than I can give you---

            She really wants to cry.  She hates that she ever gave a thought to someone else out there, being a more desirable person.  There is no one but him.  She has known that since she first saw him, in the alleyway outside the Bronze.  She wasn't afraid that he was going to kill her.  She was afraid that he was going to love her.

            And now, here she is.

            She reaches for him, tears welling in her eyes until he is just a blur of black against the white of the mall.  "I want you always.  I don't care if always is tomorrow or five seconds from now.  I want you always."


	3. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Travis and Dawn enter the silent apartment hand in hand.  Spike's car was not in the lot there were no lights on from the outside.  But still, as they walk in, she feels the need to call for them just in case they are having an intimate moment in their bedroom.

            "Well, I guess they haven't gotten back from the mall yet," Dawn says with a smile.

            "So we're alone?"  Travis asks, moving closer to her.

            "Yep.  All alone."

            The awkwardness of the moment envelopes them both for just a second.  It is not often that they find themselves alone.  They are always either with the gang at the library or here in the apartment with Spike playing the watchful chaperone, sometimes even sitting between them on the sofa while they're watching television.  With the lights out and their youthful hormones raging to be unleashed, Dawn laces her fingers with Travis' and leads him over to the sofa.

            Travis gave Dawn her first real kiss.  It occurred the night after the fall formal, on the dance floor, to Creed's "With Arms Wide Open."  She knew that if he was going to kiss her, it was going to be then.  She remembers how his eyes darkened as he leaned into her and how her heart pounded inside of her.  She was embarrassed, really, that her excitement was so audible.  His lips were so warm over hers and his hands traveled up and down her back as he drew her closer and closer.  She was startled when his tongue danced across the underside of her top lip and even more so when it found its way inside her mouth, but she accepted it and thought with a girlish giggle in her head, "So this is frenching…"

            They sit on the edge of the sofa, staring ahead into the darkness before finally turning to each other.  Dawn reaches out to smooth back Travis' ever-unruly blond locks from his forehead and his hand goes to her brown tresses as well.  She loves it when he runs his hands through her hair.  She inclines his head to his, looking up into his lash-laden stare.  His lips brush hers very gently and she closes her eyes.  His arms go around her and she falls against the cushion of the sofa, allowing him to lay his torso on top of hers.  As he kisses her, she threads her fingers through his hair.  His hands are now roving over her shoulders, down her arms.  

            "So, Dawn,"  he says, kissing her down the side of her face.  "How are Spike and Buffy these days?"

            Dawn freezes in his arms and regards him curiously.  This is the last question she expects to hear from him in such a passionate embrace.  "They're fine.  Why?"

            "I was just wondering.  They seem like such a cool couple."

            "They are a cool couple.  But I'll let you in on a little secret.  Mentioning my sister and her boyfriend while we're kissing?  Big mood killer,"  Dawn intones threateningly.

            "Oh, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to—

            "No worries,"  she replies, rubbing her nose against his.  "I'll let you off with a warning this time."

            They are kissing again as they hear the locks being undone at the door.  A shared panic goes through them like a bolt of electricity.

            "Oh, God…"  Dawn says, springing up from the sofa.  She quickly rearranges her shirt and smoothes down her mussed hair.   She is turning on the lamp just as Buffy and Spike cross the threshold.

            "Hi!"  Dawn says brightly as her sister's questioning gaze peruses the room like a searchlight.

            "Hey,"  Buffy says slowly, noting the darkness in the room and Travis' huddled position on the sofa.  "What are you guys doing?"

            "We were just…um…we were watching TV and there was nothing on…so we turned it off.  Just before you came in,"  Dawn explains, twitching nervously under her sister's knowing glare.

            "Uh huh,"  Buffy says.

            Dawn notices that Spike's nostrils are flaring as he looks about the room.  Her heart begins to pound.   _Oh, God!  He knows!  He can smell it!_

            "I'd better be going," Travis says, moving off the sofa and closing in on the door.  "Mom will be expecting me."

            There's something about that phrase that strikes Spike as being a bit familiar.  He doesn't exactly know why…He shrugs it off and makes his way past the trio in the living room and heads for the bedroom, finding it hard to fight the impulse to grab Travis by the neck and squeeze the life out of him any longer.  _Making out in my home with my Nibblet.  I'll dream about killing the bastard tonight…_

Shortly Buffy does join him in the bedroom.  He is lying on their bed, his hands behind his head, the Christmas gifts still bagged and on the floor when he told Buffy he would put them away.  Annoyed, she takes up the task herself. 

            As she is stuffing the gifts into the closet, she says, "Honey, do you have something to do tonight?"

            "Not really,"  he answers.

            "Um…could you have something to do tonight?"

            Spike rouses himself from his prostrate position slightly and props his head up on his outstretched hand.  "Why?  What's going on?"

            Buffy smoothes her hands down her slight hips and purses her lips.  "I really, really need to have some sort of talk with Dawn tonight."

            "What?  About her and Travis playing out a Marcy Playground song in the living room?"

            "Exactly.  Things are getting a little too hot and heavy between the two of them a little too fast.  The last thing we need is for her to come home pregnant one day."

            "Well, sweetheart, I did smell full arousal in there, but I didn't smell the aftermath of a geyser gusher."

            "Yeah, but it's only a matter of time," Buffy says, gathering more gifts to hide in the closet.  The most obvious place for hidden gifts, but the only place in a two bedroom apartment.   

            "You sure you don't want me around for back-up?"

            "No, I think having you here would just embarrass her."

            "Too right,"  Spike concedes, jumping up from the bed.  "Well, I'll find something to do, I suppose.  Perhaps there's a game of kitten poker on somewhere."

            "Kitten poker?"  Buffy asks, thinking that in all her life she has never heard those two words so close together in a sentence.  "I hope that's a euphemism for something."

            "Sadly, no,"  Spike says, grabbing his duster.  "But it's all I got now.  And if I win any kittens, I promise I'll either set them free or give them to worthy street urchins who would otherwise have empty stockings this Christmas."

            There are no games of kitten poker this night.

            Spike has no other course but to result to plan B.  B standing for the Bronze.

            The band plays a slow song heavy on the effects from the Casio organ the keyboardest plays as though he has opened an early Christmas gift and is just getting used to the keys.  The bands have been a miserable lot lately.  He hasn't heard any good music since a alt band from Fresno played Blink 182 songs one night.  He is ashamed that he likes the trio of would-be punkers whose gimmick is to run around naked on stage, but he has found some value in their tunes, something that reminds him of the three chord perfection of garage bands past.   

He goes to the bar and orders something out of the ordinary for him.  A whisky.  Neat.

The bartender knows him by sight and nods to him as he pours the drink.  "How's Carla tonight?"

"Carla's fine," Spike replies, rifling through Buffy's tip money sandwiched between the leather of his wallet.  "Looks like she did well last night."

The bartender shakes his head.  "I'd never say it to her face, but Buffy's the best thing to happen to this dive since that Troll wrecked the place."

As Spike hands him three dollar bills, he decides to take what the bartender has said as a compliment to his lady.  It is a much better bar now.  Except for the extinction of the blooming onion.  There has to be some way to bring that back.

Spike walks away from the bar, shoving his change into the interior pocket of his duster.  As he is doing this, a brutish shoulder brushes against his.  

"Hey!  What's it?"  Spike says indignantly.  Then he sees the person who has bumped into him.  _Harris_.    "Oh.  One of those happy coincidences."

"Spike?"  is all Xander says.

"No, Bob Saget.  But I get that all the time."

Xander's lower lip curls in a near-sneer if he were cool enough to pull off such an expression.  "Look, don't bother me tonight.  I'm not in the mood."

"And you expect me to wait for a night when you want to be bothered?  Harris, I may be immortal, but I am terribly impatient."

 "Don't you have something else to do tonight?,"  Xander says, with arms crossed.

"I suppose I could crack open your cranium and hold you hostage.  Oops!  Been there, done that, would have gotten the tee shirt, if I could have screen printed 'Xander and Willow Hostagefest 1998' in a timely manner."

"Yeah.  Real funny, Spike.  Makes me wish we were better friends."

"That was the worst scheme I ever tried to pull off.  If Buffy hadn't been so into Poof Daddy, she would have known I had you and Will chained up in the factory.  But at least it gave you a chance to get cozy with Red.  Hey!  Maybe that's why she became a muff diver.  Ever think about that?"

Xander slices two hands through the space in front of him.  "If you only knew what I've been through this evening…Nah, forget it.  You'd only use it to your advantage in your continuous piss off Xander quest."

"Aww, Harris.  Something wrong?  You know I'm always here for you,"  Spike says, nearly giving into laughter as his mock earnestness leaves Xander momentarily flustered.

"Well, you're always here,"  Xander says.

"Yeah?  You too.  I think we're what they call regulars."  Spike takes a sip of his drink.  "Where's your screamin' demon lover tonight?"

"If you're referring to my fiancée, she's at the Magic Box helping Giles with end-of-the-year inventory.  What about your infinitely better half?"

"Home.  Practicing some parental guidance with the Nibblet.  We're the only Scoobies about tonight."

"Since when did you become a Scooby?"

"I think sleeping with the Slayer qualifies me for full-Scooby status."  Spike cocks his head to one side.  "Join me for a drink?"

Xander shrugs.  "Might as well.  The day couldn't get any worse."

"Ho ho, my friend,"  Spike chortles.  "You've been a Scooby longer than I have.  You should know better than to say thing like that.  Things can get a lot worse and they usually do."

Dawn is in the living room watching TV when Buffy pulls out the wrapping paper and tape from the space over the washer and dryers.  She peers around the division between the hall and the living room, finding Dawn nearly comatose in front of a much-repeated Behind the Music episode.  

"Dawnie?"  Buffy says.  "You want to help me wrap?"

Dawn remains silent for a few minutes, staring with sudden interest at the screen.  She rises, putting an index finger up in the air.  "One second.  I think this band is just about to discover that their dreams of success are becoming a nightmare."

"Well, when you're done Journey'ing, will you join me in the kitchen?  I could use some help with prezzie wrapping."

"Is it lecture time?"  Dawn asks warily.

"No.  Prezzie wrapping time."

"OK,"  Dawn says, getting up from the sofa in slow puppet movements.  _If this isn't lecture time, I will eat the wrapping paper, and maybe a bow or two._

Buffy places a white shirt box on top of the underside of the wrapping paper and judges how much slack she will need to cover the right hand side without neglecting the left.  Finally satisfied with her guesswork, she slices into the paper with the scissors.

"You can fill out the name tag,"  Buffy says.  "This one's for Spike."

"Is it the silk robe?"  Dawn asks.

"Well, silken.  100% polyester.  But I tore off the tag."

"Four out of five vampires can't tell the difference,"  Dawn says, taking up a tag and filling it out with a black felt tip pen.

"So, um…"  Buffy says, stuffing the ends of the paper into a neat triangle, "did you get Travis something for Christmas?"

"Yeah.  Just a little something.  He wanted the latest NOW collection, so I got it for him,"  Dawn says, beginning to realize that she won't be munching on paper anytime soon.

"And is he getting you something?"  

"I guess.  We are boyfriend and girlfriend.  'Tis the season."

"So you guys are in the gift-giving stage.  Must be getting kind of serious,"  Buffy says, cutting the other end of the paper and nodding to Dawn for some tape.

"Yeah.  We're serious,"  Dawn says, giving Buffy a two-inch length of tape.

"So you're dating exclusively?"  Buffy asks, accepting the tape.

"Yeah.  Why?"  Dawn asks, knowing that the lecture will commence now.

Buffy pastes the tape to the side of the box and pauses.  The parent in her doesn't want to come out now.  Buffy knows that long ago her mother did tell Dawn about the birds and the bees.  Right after the Angel incident.  But did she really?  She remembers the muted talk from the hall.  Dawn saying "ew."  Dawn promising, "If that's what it's like, I don't wanna do it.  That's just yucky!"

"Dawnie," Buffy says.  She catches Dawn's hand and semi-smiles.  "Dawn.  Remember when you found out Spike and I had slept together?"

"Found out?  I was kind of in the audience," Dawn says, staring down at her tape.

"Well, yeah.  But the morning after.  What I told you.  About two adult people coming together?"

"Yes, I remember that," Dawn nods, eyes still cast downward.

"You're only sixteen years old.  You've got your whole life ahead of you.  I just don't want you to waste it---

"Look, Buffy, Travis and I do make-out.  But that's all.   I swear."

Buffy relaxes her shoulders a bit.  "But if things get a little steamy one night---

"We won't do it.  Not yet.  But if we do it, I will ask him to wear a condom.  I mean, it's not just pregnancy now that's the big threat.  There's AIDS and clymidia and all that.   I guess that's the advantage of dating a vampire.  No pregnancy, no disease."

Something hugs Buffy from within.  Her empty womb…She never even recognized its existence until that day when she saw the strollers go by.  It would certainly not be wise to conceive a child as a Slayer, with all the hazards of the job.   She doesn't have to worry about conception.  Spike's swimmers are dead.  She feels them, cold, pooling inside of her when they make love, but they shove off and butterfly in the opposite direction.

"I'll never have his child,"  Buffy says, more to herself than to anyone else.  

"Does that bother you?"  Dawn asks.

Buffy is surprised that Dawn answers her.  She demurs, putting the final tapings on the package at hand.  "Sometimes."

"But if you could have his baby, would you?"  Dawn asks.

This is not something Buffy expects from her little sister.  But it is a question she has asked herself.   It's always a resounding yes.  She would love to have the chance of feeling a life they created together growing and kicking inside of her.   Someday.  She is not ready for it yet.  But someday, when she is older, perhaps…

"I knew that Angel and I could never have a baby together," Buffy says, in a ghost voice as she places the name tag on the present.  "But I was a teenager then.  I thought we were forever.  It didn't bother me then that I couldn't have a child with him.  But now with Spike…"

"It's different?"  Dawn offers.

Buffy caresses the name tag.  To:  Spike  From:  Buffy and Dawn.  "Yeah.  It's different."

Spike is ordering his third whisky when Xander comes back from the bathroom.  And he finds the seat he was occupying has been taken.

"Thanks for saving my seat,"  Xander says, noting also that his beer is gone.  

"Sorry.  This bloke asked me if someone was sitting there and I said no because you were in the gents.  Besides, you didn't ask me to save your seat."

"Yes I did!  I remember very clearly saying, 'Spike, would you mind keeping my seat for me?'"

"Must not have heard you over the noise."

"I thought vampires were supposed to have super hearing?"

"Depends on what's being said,"  Spike replies, regarding the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip.  "But I must say.  You don't take as long in the bog as the Slayer does."

"I think that's a universal girl thing.  Anya is a big time bathroom enthusiast too."

"You know, I just don't get it.  I swear that Buffy and Dawn have some sort of Batcave buried in the walls of the bathroom at home.  They go in there and disappear for hours on end."

Xander shakes his head.  "I have no clue what Anya does when that door shuts but her prep time for bed is almost at the hour mark now.  I have a feeling it has to do with all those jars and vials she picks up every time she goes to the mall.  She said she never worried about the aging process when she was a vengeance demon, but now she's very concerned."

Spike nods knowingly.  "I once tried to spend an hour in the bathroom, just to see what all the fuss was about.  I've never been so bored in all my life.  The time I spent dead and buried was scads more entertaining than that.  Granted, I'm probably missing out on at least one aspect of the experience.  You know---the whole mirror thing---but still.  When I'm in there, I take my shower, I clean both sets of teeth, maybe sprinkle on a bit of cologne if Buffy and I are sorting out for the evening, and then I'm done."

"Oh!  And if you dare to spend more than twenty minutes in there---

"Hell and damnation!  Of course, in my household I'm out-numbered.  I don't dare go over my allotted time with both the Slayer and the Nibblet around."

The patron beside Spike sees a familiar face in the crows and takes his leave.  Xander quickly reclaims his seat and flips through the contents of his wallet to pay for another beer.  After the beer is poured and paid for, the two men sit in silence, listening to the band and nibbling on the complimentary peanuts on the bar.  After a while, Xander breaks up the monotony.

"So, Spike," he begins, "What is your standard answer to the age-old, 'Do I look fat in these jeans?' question?"

Spike grimaces slightly as he takes a sip of his drink.  "There is no answer to that question.  If you say no, they think you're lying and if you say yes, well, that just about puts them in rehab."

Xander slams a hand down on the bar.  "Exactly!  And there's no way Buffy or Anya could ever look fat in anything."

"I'd sort of like to see Buffy with a little more flesh on her bones.  A bit more like she was when she was still in high school.  But as long as she keeps insisting on cooking for herself, I don't see that happening.  I'm all but on the dole paying for Dawn's after dinner snacks.  I'll take her to the library and she'll say, 'Spike, can you run me by Jack N' the Box?  That noodle stuff Buffy made was kind of icky.'"

"So three years after Sunnydale High, Buffy's still failing home ec?"

"Miserably.  But she makes up for all her failings in the kitchen in the bedroom,"  Spike says with a teasing smile.  He reaches into his interior pocket for his cigarettes.  "A little fire engine, she is.  She does this wonderful little thing right after sex.  Blows my mind every time.  She'll take me in her mouth because she loves to taste herself on that particular part of my anatomy.  She'll just start licking away, cleaning every bit of her off me until there's nothing but me again.  But she doesn't stop there.  She just keeps on licking away until I'm thrusting into her mouth, all the way to the back of her throat.  And…Oh!"  Spike flips open his lighter, taps the end of the cigarette to the flame and gives it a satisfying puff.  "I'm on my way to my second happy."

Through the curl of the smoke, Spike sees Xander's absolutely awe-struck expression.  His mouth forms a perfect O and his dark eyes appear to be glazing over from second hand arousal.   Just when Spike thinks that Xander has gone into some sort of shock, he speaks.

"Wow.  You mean…you mean you can…you can get that way so soon after…after…"

Spike takes another puff.  "One of the many advantages of being undead, mate.  But it usually doesn't end there.  After she's had me in her mouth, she wants me to return the favor.  Turn about is fair play and all.  So I go down on her, chasin' down my lads with my tongue, returning them to the fold, so to speak.  And before long she's holdin' my head down there and screamin' and beggin' me not to stop.  And then…"  Spike scrapes a wayward shred of tobacco from his extended tongue.  "Buffy taste in my mouth."

"You don't have to,"  Xander looks around to see if anyone is listening before saying in a hushed voice, "use any fingers or anything?"

"All in the tongue, mate.  All in the tongue,"  Spike says, licking his lips for added affect.  "But then, of course, she usually wants me inside of her after that.  And then it's all déjà vu after that."

"So your average sex session lasts about…what, six hours?"

"Six, seven.  Sometimes eight."

"Eight?  Eight hours of sex?"  Xander says in a near squeal of incredulity that catches the interest of a previously indifferent couple sitting next to them.    Xander mutes his voice.  "How?"

"Well it's all fairly simple, Harris.   I'm a vampire, she's a vampire Slayer.  She's engineered to go head to head with the likes of me.  We have similar stamina, similar strengths."

"I see,"  Xander says, still in thrall.  "No wonder she only dates the forever young and the pulse-less.  We warm-bloods just can't compete."

"Well,"  Spike says, exhaling a gust of smoke.  "Become a vampire.  We're always looking for new recruits."

Xander looks as though for a minute he is considering this.  But then he smirks as the reality of what Spike has said sinks in.  "Nah.  I keep my girl satisfied.  You'll never hear any complaints from her in that department.  Why else would she be marrying me?"

"Yeah,"  Spike says with a slight smile.  "Why else?"  

Spike gulps down the last of his whisky and Xander is ready for another beer as well.  They both order their drinks and sink down into wordlessness.  The band onstage takes a break and piped in music floods the bar.  The instantly recognizable drum taps of the beginning of AC/DC's "Back in Black" bleat from the speakers overhead and Spike, a little inebriated, can't help playing a little dork air guitar as the guitar part commences.  He is not too worried because he is in the company of a man whom he considers the essence of all things nebbish.   Spike takes another swig, finishing it to his dismay.  He quickly orders another.  His head is slightly woozy.  He skipped his blood feast before he left the apartment that night.  Buffy bought a fresh batch of swine blood from the butcher that very day.  He gulped down a pint at lunch, but had nothing for dinner.  He realizes his error now.  His stomach is growling and the liquor is going straight to his head.   He wonders if the buffalo wings have any blood in them.  The sauce is red…

He thinks about the afternoon spent at the mall.  The gallery of jewels in front of his lady love.  She could have had any one of them, if she had just said the word.   And he would have proposed to her, if she had just realized that was what he was saying.  But

there were baby carriages in the way and too many distant thoughts about later years.  He felt she glimpsed at her future that afternoon and really did want to see him in it.  But she couldn't see him in the mirror.  She never would.

"So tell me," Spike begins, "How did you do it?"

"Well, at first, Anya was kind of demanding and wanted to be on top all the time.   But then, eventually, we got to the point where we could do it missionary and even side by side---

"Harris, I wasn't asking for the Masters and Johnson of your sex life.  A bit of clarification here.  How did you ask shop girl to marry you?"

"Oh, _that_.  Well, it was just us, in the basement of the Magic Shop and I had been wanting to ask her for the longest time and we found each other alone and she saw a stuffed bunny so she was vulnerable.  That's about it."  

"But how did you ask her?  Did you just sort of slip the proposal into polite conversation or did you just spring it on her all at once?"

"I just showed her the ring.  The explanation came later.  Why?"  Xander's eyes widen and he begins to point an agitated finger Spike's way.  "Oh!  Oh!  You're going to ask Buffy to marry you!"

Suddenly finding himself in found out mode, Spike cowers over his fresh whisky and mumbles, "Maybe."

"No!  You are!  You're going to ask Buffy to marry you!"  Xander says the words.  They occur to him in his brain.  All at once his expression falls.  "You're going to ask Buffy to marry you?"

"Thought about it,"  Spike says, propping his jaw up on a curled fist as he swirls a finger around the remnants of his drink.  "I tried today, actually."

"And what happened?"

He tries to catch the attention of the bartender, effectively avoiding Xander's full-on inquiring expression.  Something about the young, the fleeting youth that always pained Spike.  Perhaps the ephemeral quality of the bud about to burst into adulthood, only to die on the vine.  Youthful preservation has always been key when seeking prey on a hunt.  It seemed unconscionable to let pretty people go to waste.  But luckily enough for Xander, Spike does not view him as being a pretty thing.  He is expendable, could be drained and tossed into the heap of nameless victims.  But luckily for Xander, he was Buffy's friend.  And for some reason, he is Spike's friend tonight.

"She didn't take me seriously,"  Spike finally answers.  

"But you're going to ask her?  Again?  Eventually?"

"I will…eventually,"  Spike says, inviting another gulp of his drink into his throat.

"I didn't know that you---meaning vampires, that is---were into that kind of thing.  I thought if you liked someone enough to be with them on an eternal basis, you just took a bite out of them."

Spike shakes his head.   "I'd be taking away everything that is Buffy, wouldn't I?   Everything she is.  All that sparkle and shine, all that brass and bossiness?  Well, I don't think anything could ever take away the bossiness.  But her warmth.  Her warmth is what I crave, more than blood.  The first time I held her and kissed her, I felt that warmth invading me and it was as though everything alive and wonderful about her was flowing through me and I felt good and whole and---for lack of a better word---absolved.  Her kisses were like little whispered prayers against my lips that I wanted to recite over and over to make myself worthy of her.  More than that, there was a sense that this woman was mine before I ever claimed her and I was finding her in a cloud of caresses and sighs.  I thought to myself, if I don't have this woman for the rest of my life, I'll truly be a dead man."  Without warning, a tear slips from the corner of his eye and skids down his face, hiding out under the trench of his cheekbone. 

"Wow…"  Xander mouths.  "If you tell Buffy what you just told me now, there's no way she would say no if you asked her to marry you.   I mean, _I'd_ marry you if you said that to me and I hate your guts."

Spike chuckles a bit, relieved that Xander has given him a reason to, so that his sobs are mistaken for laughter.

"Just do me a favor, though,"  Xander says.

 "Never,"  Spike says, feeling the urge to sober up.  This night is becoming a bit too Big Chill for him, and he's already chilly enough.  

"Just this once?"  Xander pleads.

"What, then?"  Spike asks.

 "Don't get married before Anya and I do."

Spike chuckles a bit.  "You've got a deal," he answers.

Xander raises his nearly finished beer in the air.  "To our women."

Spike hoists his tumbler as well.  "To our women."

At the clash of their glasses they drink.  Xander orders another beer and Spike another whisky.  

And by the end of the evening, Spike is confirmed as Xander's best man. 


	4. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

It is mid afternoon when Buffy enters the magic shop.  She has some two hours before she has to be at the Bronze for her 4:00 shift and has decided that she should spend them in training.  The day before she received a vague message from Giles, delivered by way of a snacking Dawn, about more Ger'acht demons on the prowl in Sunnydale.  They are easy enough to kill, but their horns sometimes make it difficult to determine where they will strike next.  Buffy thinks some agility training might be in order.

Just inside the Magic Box, Buffy sees that hard economic times are not limited to the large chain stores at the mall.  On a small round table, covered in an antique white lace cloth, is an arrangement of assorted items, all marked fifty percent off.  A jar of mummified warthog's feet, a vial of salamander eyes, some dried sage, and an imposing ebony statuette of a woman that could very well have been modeled after Pamela Anderson, sans the over abundance of bleached blond hair.

"Hey,"  Buffy says, pointing to the figurine.  "Why is the Maori fertility goddess on the discount table?"

Anya and Giles exchange a brief, pained look and Giles clears his throat.

"It was an accident,"  Anya says in confession mode.  "We were doing inventory last night.  I was reaching for the book on Spells for the Uninitiated when my elbow smacked into the statue.  It landed with a thud on the floor.  I didn't think I had really done any real damage, but then I found her nipple by the pre-fab potions.  See?"  Anya draws a finger over the clear halo of glue around the statuette's left areole.  

Buffy picks the statuette up to inspect the break a little further.  "So you don't think it works anymore?"

"The energy has been disrupted now,"  Giles explains.  "Corporal energy to a graven image always insures that the intentions of the deity have not been compromised.  In this instance, rather crudely and carelessly."

Anya's lips form a straight line and she balls her fists at her side.  "OK, Giles.  You promised you wouldn't keep badgering me about it.  And I told you if it's not sold by the end of the season, you could take the money out of my paycheck."  She shrugs.  "At any rate, it would make a nice tchochke  for someone's eclectic living room."

"So how do you use it?"  Buffy asks, tilting the god on its side.  

"It works by will,"  Giles tells her, wincing as Buffy turns the statuette in her hands.  "A woman wishing to become pregnant touched the statuette on her abdomen.  If it is truly her desire to have a child, then she will supposedly be with child very soon."

Buffy is holding the statue by the neck as the base collides with the hem of her cropped tee shirt.  "Any proof that it works?"

"Well, I suppose, the Maoris themselves,"  Giles answers.

"Would you like me to wrap it for you?"  Anya asks eagerly.

Buffy returns the statuette to the table.  "No thanks.  Even marked down from $150 to $75, it's still a little out of my price range.  Besides, every bit of my money is going towards Dawn's big Christmas present."

"She still really wants that computer, does she?"  Giles asks.

"And I still really want to give it to her.  Spike's out seeing what he can do about getting a cheap one now."  She pauses to blow a stray piece of hair from her forehead.  "Why am I picturing a guy named Guido, the back of a truck, and a bunch of used stereo equipment?"

            At dusk, gratefully early for vampires seeking gifts, Spike enters Helena's House of Herbs.  There are few patrons.  As he crosses the threshold, he meets a confused teenager who seems to think that this place is the hub of all weed exchange in Sunnydale.

            "Can I help you?"  the slight blond behind the register asks as Spike's seeking gaze meets with every root and leaf in the place.

            "Yeah, I'm looking for…"  How does he phrase this delicately?  Or does he want to phrase it delicately?  It might prove more effective if delivered in one breath, without hesitation.  But he has already hesitated.  "Spells.  You have spells?"

            "Spells?  Not here,"  the shop woman says.  She is not still a girl.  She is in her forties.  Her crows feet shine in the track lighting above as she goes and dusts some ebony statuettes holding small blue crystals.   She seems awfully nervous.

            "You have ingredients for spells?"  Spike asks, giving into the thrill that he is making someone uncomfortable.

            "No.  Just herbs.  Hence the name."  She does not look at her patron; just purses her lips and continues her dusting.  "You should try the Magic Box."

            "Oh, the Magic Box?  I wouldn't go there even if my life depended on it.  Have you seen how much they charge for taggis root?  And the shop girl there?  Ex-demon, she is."

            The woman's unadorned pink lips open to a gasp.  "Really?"

            Spike nods his head swiftly.  "Oh, yeah.  It's always the person you least expect."

            "That is so very true,"  the woman says.  Her eyes are trying to derive some meaning behind Spike's visit.  "What is it I can help you with?"

            "I'm looking for a rejuvenation spell."

            "Oh, like an energy pick up!  I have just the thing for you.  A tumeric and ginko combo with a twist of ginger."

            Spike waves his hands in front of his face.  "No. no.  What I'm really looking for is something to…something to help with..."  He takes a deep breath.  "It's a problem my girlfriend and I have in the bedroom."

            "You're impotent?  Have you tried Viagra?"

            "What?  NO!  I can get it up quite nicely, thank you.  It's only when I fire my boys out of the cannon that they become quite dead.   As a matter of fact, I'm quite dead."

            The shopkeeper keeps her distance with a widening "o" to her expression "You're a zombie?"

            Spike frowns as he approaches her.  "Bloody hell!  Did I ask for your brain when I came in?"

            "Well, no.  But---

            "I am a vampire.  But no worries.  I'm not of the biting variety."

            The shop woman is still guarding herself behind the counter and it appears as though she is looking for something heavy to hurl his way if he gets too close.  For now, he keeps a polite distance.

            "So you're a…vampire,"  the woman says, raking her hands down her sides.  "And your girlfriend is—

            "Human."

            "That's sort of odd, isn't it?"  she says with a nervous laugh at the end.

            "We're a very odd couple.  But we love each other and we want to be together forever.  And I can love her and I can live with her and I can sleep in her bed every night and wake up next to her every morning.  And we can go through our days together as any other couple would.  And we can hold each other and make love and really be making love, but I can't…I can't…"

            "Create life with her,"  the woman finishes for him.

            "Yes, that's right,"  he says, with a relieved sigh. "Look, I came here before and you helped me, even though you may not have known it.  My girl was very ill with a fever and I found the ingredients for her cure right here in your store.  She came back to me, and I knew that after she was well, I had to do everything I could to insure that I would never lose her again.  It occurred to me the other day that she might want a child one day and I would like to be able to father one with her.  But you see, we don't have a lot of time."

            "She's not ill again, is she?"

            "No, nothing like that.  She, uh, she has this…this curse on her lineage.  Most like her only live to be a certain age.  Not much older than she is now.  So if we want to have a child, it has to be soon."

            "I see,"  the woman says.  "Well, as I said, I don't carry spells in my shop.  But I do think I have something that might help you."

            All of a sudden, Spike is caught up in the crest of a wave of nervousness and for a brief second he teeters on his feet.  "You do?"

            "Well, I don't know how it would work on vampires,"  she says, moving out of her safe space behind the counter, "but it has helped with the love lives of some older gentlemen I know.  Now, it's not a cure.  It's more or less and enhancement.  But it's all natural so even if it doesn't work, you haven't done any real harm to yourself."

            "But you think there's a chance that it might help with our situation?"

            "It couldn't hurt.  Here.  Let me get it for you."

            Spike can feel a wide grin forming on his face.  There is something inside of him that is stirring his long-dead heart.  It is as though for the first time in his relationship with Buffy someone is giving him hope.  Hope for the future.  Hope for a little bit of eternity that will live on past their years together.


	5. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

There is a date circled in red on the calendar in the kitchen.  It is the 22nd of December, the last day the Bronze will be open before the holidays.   The last night Buffy will have to work until January 1.  Thanks to its status as the-only-place-in-town-to-hear -live music, the bar does not rely on Christmas depression to keep it hopping. The owner is taking off for Colorado.  The employees are going to be given nice, if not totally compensatory, Christmas bonuses.  And Buffy will be coming home to Spike.

            Ten whole days she will be his and his alone.  He can't think of any occasion in their lives that they have been able to spend even the barest smidgeon of time without the interferences of her work.  Her slaying, of course, will continue through the New Year because demons are loathe to take holidays as a rule, but he can still be with her as they bask in the moonlight, weapons in hand, hand in hand.  They will make love in the cemetery, on their usual limestone slab, the one that reads Beloved Wife.  Buffy likes that tomb because of the romantic engraving:  "My sorrow is such that my life dwindles from day to day without your tender caress.  When we meet again, our hearts will be fire once more."  He might surprise her one night, have a blanket and one of her fluffy pillows there.  It is getting chilly at night and the last time they made love out of doors, Buffy trembled against the wind and he couldn't warm her.  His touch made her shiver even more.

It has been ten days since they have made love, outdoors or in.  He wakes aching for her sometimes, but she continues to sleep as Dawn prepares for school and leaves the apartment.  He has been patient for the most part because it is a Herculean task to wake her when she is sleeping so deeply.  And it is even more of a bear to deal with the consequences of her interrupted slumber.  She can be as crabby as an old man losing at a park chess game when she hasn't had enough rest.

But tonight they will make love.  Dawn is out for the evening at a friend's Christmas party.  Buffy phoned earlier and said that she would be finished at the bar around 8:00.  With Dawn's 11:00 weekend curfew, that will give them three precious hours to play.  He intends to make the most of them.  Tonight he is going to show her what she has been missing.  

At ten till 8:00, he goes into the bathroom to draw a bath for her.  Buffy will be tired after her shift.   She will need a chance to relax, but not for too long.  He will be in the tub with her, once again demonstrating one of the many advantages of having a lover who doesn't have to breathe.  He joined her in the bath not too long ago and tongued her underwater, making her thrash around so that by the time he was finished, almost all the bathwater was on the floor.  Afterwards, they soaked up the mess with towels moved across the floor by way of their passionate lovemaking.  Buffy remarked that it was the most fun she had ever had doing housework.

As hot water pours from the faucet, he sprinkles some sea salt into the flow, followed by a generous spurt of Buffy's favorite vanilla scented bubble bath.  While the bath is brewing, he goes to check on the candle supply.  There are already a few votives lining the rim of the tub, but he wants the room to glow from every angle with soft candlelight.  He ventures into their bedroom for the ones they keep on the bureau and bedside tables.  While he's in there, he notes that it is just now 8:00.  Perfect.

The tub is full and foamy as he is lighting the last of the candles.  He snaps his lighter closed and sits on the rim of the toilet, admiring his work.  He wonders briefly if he should have bought flowers for the occasion.  But it's too late now.

Now, how to present himself to his lady tonight.  He paces around in the living room, passing his thumbnail over his bottom lip while he thinks.  He supposes nakedness is always a welcome sight.  He begins to untuck his tee shirt and almost has the garment pulled over his head when he has a sudden change of heart.  No, this isn't right.  He doesn't want to be so blatant.  Though at this point he thinks he could take her right at the threshold, with the bath and the candles and the soft mood lighting, he knows the evening calls for a little romance.  This is where the silk smoking jacket would come in handy.  Where might she be hiding his presents?

There's only one place in the apartment where she could be stashing away the presents.  Their closet.  He goes into the bedroom and tears open the closet door.  On the top shelf where there were previously bags and bags of stuff are now just the usual clutter of shoeboxes and purses.  Damn.  She's found a new spot.  Where else?  Under the bed?  He checks there, but the only thing occupying that space are a growing family of dust bunnies and some balled up Kleenex.

There is a linen closet, he remembers.

Out in the hallway now, he goes to the slim door between their bedroom and the bathroom.  After opening the door, he flips on the light switch.  No, still just towels and sheets.  He moves some of the bulkier towels aside, thinking that they may be just a façade, but again, there's nothing behind them but more towels.

"Oh, well,"  he says to himself.  "Wouldn't be right, sporting her gift before Christmas morning."  He again begins to strip off his tee shirt.  "This will have to do."

After thirty minutes on the sofa in front on the TV, Spike is beginning to realize it's hard to feel sexy while watching a sappy episode of _Providence_.  He checks the clock over the mantle.  Yep, it's 8:35.   He should have offered her a ride home.  Now he doesn't know why he didn't.  Oh, that's right.  He wanted to make tonight special for her.  He pads into the bathroom and dips his fingers into the tub.  The water is now lukewarm.  He unplugs the drain to let out just enough water to allow a top off of hot water.   Some of the candles are beginning to melt down to their wick holders.  Such a waste, he thinks in dismay.  She would love this and she would love him for it.  He can just imagine her girlish squeals and happy Buffy cheerleader moves she does when she's really excited about something.

He moves his hands through the suds, creating a menacing claw mark in the blinking bubbles.  So what is it about a tub dip that's so soothing and relaxing?  He has seen Buffy, dressed in her robe, hair tossed into a messy bun on top of her head, cucumber in hand, nearly salivating for her solo soak.  He wondered about the cucumber for a long time, wondering what she was doing with it exactly, until one night he walked in on her and found slices on her eyes, making her look like one of those scary Diva Dolls in the toys section of Target.  He has never been curious enough to find out what the great joy of soaking in one's own filth is all about.  But tonight, he might be.

Maybe.

He is already naked.  And the water does feel very warm to his touch.  Like Buffy.  If Buffy were liquid and rectangular.

He puts one toe in.  Then the whole foot.  That done, he thinks he can manage to put in the whole leg.  The other leg follows.  And soon he is scooting his bottom against the slick base of the tub.  As his head is resting against the seashell bath pillow, it occurs to him that this is sort of nice.  Sort of…womb-like.   Sort of something a nancy boy longing for his mum's sweet teet might find very comforting…

Wait.  Is this something a poof would do?  Because he is not a poof.  No, not this vampire, though he has known plenty who are.  Not him.  No.  But this is…this is nice.  This is warm and fragrant and soothing.  This is…

"Paradise,"  he exhales slowly as he allows his whole body to relax against the porcelain.  It almost feels as though the tub is conforming to the contours of his body, or that he is melting into the mix of salt and vanilla.  Salt and vanilla.  The ingredients for homemade ice cream.   Mmm…homemade ice cream.  Ice cream!    There is some in the freezer.   He should get it.  But this is too pleasurable, too indulgent.  A little like a murder spree, but with bubbles.  

As he lies there in total splendor, wondering why in the hell he hasn't tried this sooner, there is a ring sounding somewhere in the apartment.  His eyes jerk open.  He can't identify the source just yet.  Then he realizes it's the phone.  Before he can even make a move to pry himself out of his heavenly bliss, the answering machine picks up.

"Hi.  Buffy, Spike and Dawn are otherwise occupied.  Leave a message.  And don't hang up, unless you're a bloody telemarketer."

 This was the message Buffy dictated to him after she was horrified to learn for three weeks the outgoing message was, "Buffy and Spike are fucking now.  Leave a message."

The beep sounds, followed by Buffy's breathless voice.  "Hi, honey.  Are you there?  Guess not.  Where are you?  Anyway, there's been a delay.  Some biker demons decided to zoom in right at closing time and guess what?  Yep.  Slayer carnage ensued and property damage accumulated.  So instead of being really grateful, the boss is, like, 'Clean it up or you don't have a job next year!'  I'm almost done.  I'll be home as soon as I can.  Love you!"

He smiles, letting the bubbles baptize his shoulders again as he sinks back down against the pillow.  "Love you too, sweetheart,"  he says lazily as the bubbles adorn his chin like a shaggy Rip Van Winkle beard.  

He is awake now.  Though he can't believe he was ever asleep.

The systematic undoing of locks trumpets someone's return to the apartment.  Spike springs from the now chilly water and hurdles over the side, diving for the terrycloth towel on a nearby rack.  He dries himself off as best as he can, wrapping the towel around his waist as soon as he stops making puddles on the floor.  As Buffy is walking into the apartment, he is exiting the bathroom, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

"Hello, sweetheart,"  he says, still cinching the towel around him.

"Hi,"  she says warily.

"I was just getting out of the shower,"  he says.  "Wanted to be nice and warm for you when you got home."

"Aw, honey,"  she says, approaching him with open arms.  As she falls into his embrace, she murmurs against his shoulder, "You're so sweet…so sweet and…vanilla scented."  She pulls away from him, aiming an accusatory glare his way, tinged with a laughing amusement.  "You've been taking a bath!"

Spike snorts and begins to stammer.  "Wh…what, me?  No…just a shower.  I accidentally used your bubble bath, thinking it was shower gel."

But Buffy has him tagged.  "Oh, honey…The candle scent?  The sleepy eyes?"  She offers his own hand for evidence.  "The prune fingers?"

"So what if I have?"  he asks, whipping his fingers away from Buffy's probing, mocking stare.  "It was very relaxing!  And it was supposed to have been for you, Goldilocks."

"Really?  You made a bath for me?"

"Yeah,"  he says, recovering a bit of his cool as he draws her closer.   "Thought you might need it after a hard night, perhaps a hard slay."  He breathes into her ear.    "Nice preparation for a hard lay."

"Oh, baby!"  she says.  "Do you ever know what I like."

His masculinity effectively still in tact, he feels brazen enough to lift her into his arms and carry her to the bedroom.  As they are making their way down the hall, Buffy doffs her top and leaves it on the floor.  Spike's hands are under her bra strap as he ferries her into the bedroom.   They are kissing as they land one on top of the other on the bed.  Buffy ferociously undoes her own bra, allowing her breasts to bounce free in front of Spike's delighted eyes as she straddles him.   She braises his neck with kisses, rubbing her hardened nipples against his.  Growling with the overpowering need to be inside of her, Spike flips her on her back, simultaneously whipping off his drenched towel and Buffy's pants in two swift moves.  All that is between them now is the small strip of her satin thong.  He gazes at it, breathing in the pungent fresh bread scent of her arousal.  With two thumbs hooked on either side of the thong, he maneuvers the small obstruction down her thighs, kissing the areas in its wake as he slips it off her quivering legs.

Spike positions his pelvis between her thighs, guiding himself with one hand to her entrance.  But just then, the phone rings beside the bed.

At the sound, the two of them jump.  Their gazes are locked in miscomprehension for a few moments.  When Spike thinks that she's just going to let the machine get it, he pulls his hips back, ready to gun himself right into her.  Then suddenly, she pulls away from him.

"Honey, it might be Dawn,"  she says in a cautionary way.

He settles back on his folded legs, silently cursing the Nibblet.  She has some timing, he thinks bitterly as he watches his lover reach for the phone.

"Miss Summers?"  a deep, unfamiliar voice intones.  

"Speaking,"  she says, pulling her hair away from her mouth.  

"Your sister has been in an accident,"  the voice says without emotion.

Her heart falls in an elevator failure fashion to the base of her stomach.   "Oh, God.  Is she OK?"  she somehow thinks to ask.

"She's being treated at County General.  She's all right.  Just a little bruised."

"We'll be right there,"  Buffy says.  "Thank you."

As she puts the phone back, Spike asks, "What's wrong?"

"Get dressed,"  is all she says as she begins reassembling her clothes.  


	6. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

            "Your sister and her boyfriend are here,"  the nurse says casually, sliding open the green curtain that surrounds them.

            Instantly Dawn wishes that the accident had left her in a coma or unconscious at least.  Then she wouldn't have to deal with the questions, the accusations, the disappointment in her sister's face.  She thinks briefly about lying down on the cot and feigning grave injury.  The wreck left her with barely a scratch and she now thinks if she had some big oozing cuts or an indigo shiner around her eye that her sister would take pity on her.  But before she can further contemplate any sort of ruse, Spike and Buffy appear.

            "Oh, God,"  Buffy says, relief pouring from her face in sheets when she sees that her sister isn't hooked up to any machines.  "Are you all right?"

            "Yeah, Buff, I'm fine.  Just a little shaken,"  Dawn replies.

            "What happened?"

            Question number one, Dawn thinks ruefully, and it has to be the hardest one.  "First of all, Buffy, don't freak."

            "Don't give me a reason to,"  Buffy says.  "The driver you were with was drinking, wasn't he?"

            Already Question Number Two, even with the answer to Question Number one still on the launch pad.

            "Well, yeah, he was, but---

            "Dawn!"  Buffy expostulates.  "How many times have I told you NOT to get in a car with someone who's been drinking?"

            "Listen, I didn't know he had been drinking!  I swear!  He seemed perfectly OK to me."

            "Who was it?"

            Question Number Three.  A fairly easy one.

            "This guy.  Michael Lloyd."

            "Michael Lloyd?"  Spike asks.  "The bloke who's a freshman at UC Sunnydale?  The one who dates Melissa Braxton?"

            "Yeah, that's him."

            "I thought you didn't like him.   Said he cracked his knuckles all the time and smelled like Ben Gay."

            "Well, he is annoying.  And by the way, he's not dating Melissa Braxton anymore.  He's dating Meredith Cummings."

"The chit who gets out of playing dodge ball all the time because of her implants?"

"Well, that's just a rumor.  But she did develop kind of quickly and she does sit out of a lot of dodge ball games."

"I thought she was dating Ben Murphy."

"Oh, they are so over.  Didn't I tell you about what happened at Katie Olsen's party?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh, God, it was all over school how Ben and Katie's cousin Brenda were caught making out in the basement.  Meredith was soooo pissed that she---

"OK, OK.  Enough of the Sunnydale High Soap Opera update,"  Buffy says, privately marveling about how much her boyfriend knows about her sister's classmates and concluding that the two of them spend far too much time together.  "Can we get back to the issue at hand?  Dawn, you were supposed to be at a party tonight, but for some reason you left it to get into a car with a driver who was impaired and shouldn't have been driving."

"The party turned out to be really lame.   I mean, so boring there were people, like, falling asleep on the couch.  Michael said he knew of another party in the hills.  I didn't know whose party it was, but Travis did.  He said they were pretty cool.  So before I knew it, we were all in Michael's car heading for the hills.  And then we were heading for a stoplight that was red, but Michael didn't seem to notice.  He ran right through it and the car kind of got slammed into by another driver coming through the intersection."

"Oh, good God,"  Buffy mutters, the image of the accident unfurling in her mind.  "You could have been killed, you know that."

"Yeah, I know.  But the important thing is I wasn't, right?"

"Yes, that is the important thing.  But it still worries me that even after I've told you time and time again not to that you would get into a car with someone who had been drinking."

"Buffy, it's like I told you.  I had no idea Michael was drunk.  There wasn't any alcohol at the party.  He must have had a flask or something."

"Was anybody badly hurt?"  Buffy wonders.

"No.  I think Michael mashed his mouth on the steering wheel because there was all kinds of blood dripping from his mouth after the accident.  And Travis just has a few bumps and bruises like I have.  Meredith was OK too."

"Well, at least there's that,"  Buffy says.

"So…I'm not in trouble or anything, am I?"

Buffy takes a moment to look at Spike.  Of course, the idea of punishing Dawn is always the last thing on his mind whenever she goes astray, mostly because her punishments usually involve grounding which means long, long days of her in the apartment when he and Buffy could be fucking.

Finally, a smile breaks through Buffy's worried features.  "No, I don't think so.  Not this time.  I think the accident was probably lesson enough.  You just scared the hell out of us, that's all."

"I know.  And I'm sorry.  I really am."

"That's OK, Dawn,"  Buffy says wearily, drawing her little sister into a tentative embrace.  She eyes her platinum-coifed lover, remembering what they were doing when she got the phone call.  This seems to be on his mind as well as he embraces Dawn from the other side.  He shakes his head defeatedly and smiles as he places a kiss on Dawn's forehead.  

Suddenly, Dawn is sniffing the air, contorting her nostrils in an exaggerated way as a certain scent catches her attention.

"Spike?"  she asks, still sniffing.   "Why do you smell like vanilla?"

Spike only clears his throat and gives Buffy a warning glare not to say a word.  But soon there is something to distract them.  All attention now is re-routed to the short, stocky man in the pin-striped tie with the mustard strain on his lapel. 

 "Well, Miss Summers, it doesn't appear that anything is broken,"  he says, glancing at his notes before beaming his smile their way.  "You're free to go."

"Thank you, doctor,"  Buffy says.  "Is there anything we should do for her at home?"

"She'll be a little sore for a while, I imagine. A little ibuprofen should take care of the aches and pains. Warm baths should help as well."

You might have to wait in line,  Buffy thinks as she smiles over at her lover.

"So I'm free to go?"  Dawn asks hopefully.

"You are discharged."

The trio emerges as a solid unit from the cubicle.  Dawn is a little stiff and she takes slow, measured steps that the Slayer and the vampire match on either side of her.  Buffy is still going over in her mind how bad the accident could have been and how lucky she is to be taking her sister home in one piece.  Her sister's mortality has been challenged a lot in the short time she's been on the earth.  She hopes this will be the one hundredth and final time, but in her heart, she knows it probably isn't.  She is a Summers girl after all. 

"Hey, there wasn't a lot of food at the party.  Can we maybe stop somewhere and get a burger or something before we go home?"  Dawn asks.

"Oh, I guess so,"  Buffy says tiredly.  "But we do have some of that leftover potato bake in the fridge if you're hungry."

Dawn aims a terrified look in Spike's direction, a distress signal he knows quite well.

"Uh, Buffy, I could go for a burger as well,"  Spike says, receiving Dawn's grateful, silent thank you's.    "There's a Doublemeat Palace on the way home.  We could go through the drive thru."

"Oh, OK.  A milkshake does sound good right about now."

As they were winding their way down the hall, they hear loud voices coming from one of the open wards to the left.  In their approach, at least one of the voices becomes more and more recognizable.  It is the voice of a boy, its pitch wavering from high to low frequencies, repeatedly saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Once they are all able to get a proper view of the situation, they see the familiar boy, hunched over on the gurney where he sits, miserably.  On one side stands a tall gentlemen who is not saying a word.  On the other side is an hysterical harpy of a woman for whom a loss for words does not seem to be an issue.

"Why did you let this happen?  How could you have been so stupid?"  the woman asks, seemingly rhetorically as she is not listening to any of the "I'm sorries" being issued in return.  "Honestly, I don't understand you sometimes.  No, all the time.  You have this bright future ahead of you.  You're going to be accepted at MIT.  You're going to be a chemical engineer who will make a very good living.  But tonight you almost threw it all away, didn't you?"  The boy just slumps against her continued harangues.  She grabs him by his collar.  "Didn't you?"

"Mom, how many times do I have to tell you I'm sorry?"  he fires back, jerking her hand away from his shirt.

"The thing is, you're not sorry.  You don't even realize what you've done.  You could have been killed.  You could be lying down in the morgue right now!"

"I know, Mom.  But I'm not.  I'm alive.  I mean, aren't you at least happy about that?"

"Yes, I am happy that my son is alive.  But I just am having a little trouble understanding why he's sitting here in hospital after getting in a car with a drunk driver.  A DRUNK DRIVER!"

"But I didn't know he was---

"Oh, come on, Travis!  Don't even try to use that as an excuse.  You're a smart boy.  You should know what a person acts like when he's been drinking."

"Honest, Mom, it's the truth!"

Before Mrs. Singleton can fire back with a retort, Dawn's small voice intervenes.  

"It is true, Mrs. Singleton.  None of us knew Michael had been drinking.  Travis even asked him before we got in the car and he lied,"  Dawn says.

Mrs. Singleton makes a slow turn in Dawn's direction and the teenager can feel every hair stand up on the back of her neck.  Her eyes cut to Travis, who is silently pleading with her to back off; this is not her fight.  She should run away, far away, just as fast and as soon as she can.

"I really don't think this is any of your business, young lady,"  Mrs. Singleton sneers through teeth that are so gnarled, Dawn thinks her top and bottom front teeth are just going to pop out and pierce her right in the chest like a rain of gunfire.

 "Um, actually it is, because I was in the wreck,"  Dawn replies warily.

"Yes, you were.  And I would expect this kind of reckless behavior from someone who spends most of her school days in the principal's office.  But not from my son."

Buffy can feel the fury building in her, the heady heat of a battle about to begin.  It is the same feeling she gets when she is about to take on a demon.  But before she can utter a word, someone has beaten her to a response.

 "Hey!"  Spike interjects.  "Now, Buffy and I do the best job we know how raising Dawn.  It's not easy and we do mistakes, but I think Dawn's track record speaks for itself.  Out of the ten times she's been to the principal's office this semester, there have been only three times she was actually guilty of what she was accused of.  So you see---

"Hey, honey,"  Buffy says, pressing a hand against Spike's chest.  "I think you've made your point.  Mrs. Singleton, don't you think you're being just a little too harsh on Travis.  I mean, Dawn told us that she had no idea Michael was drunk and we believed her."

Mrs. Singleton gives a curt laugh.  "Fine.  You just go ahead and wallow in your denial.  In the meantime, I'll keep doing the job of being a responsible parent."  It seems that Mrs. Singleton is finished with them, but then she turns around again with a new fire alight in her eyes.  "One day, Miss Summers, you'll know what it's like to be a parent.  Someday you will know what it's like to have something you carried inside of you need your guidance and your discipline.  Until that day, don't even think about passing judgement on my parenting skills, you little---

"Samantha, that's enough,"  the heretofore silent man says, untucking his arm from the folded length of his jacket to coral his wife in before she says too much.

Mrs. Singleton inhales an audible breath through her flared nostrils and demurs to her husband, at last turning around to her son once again.  Travis looks at the floor, his shoulders hunched, helplessness registering in his face, pinching his youthful features until he looks as old as his father.  Buffy takes the initiative to stir her group away from the joyless trio, leaving them to flit hopelessly in their dysfunction until the doctor comes in and releases the boy to his parents' care and probably more of the same treatment at home.

None of the three says a word about what they witnessed either in the parking lot or in the car.  Nothing is said until the Desoto pulls into the parking lot of the Doublemeat Palace.  A line of cars snakes its way around the perimeter of the restaurant for the drive thru, but it appears that inside, there are fewer people cueing up at the registers.  Dawn volunteers to be the hunter gatherer and as soon as she snags a twenty from her sister, she is out the door, still walking a bit stiffly, to the side door of the restaurant.  

Once Dawn is a safe distance away, Spike exhales and slams his hand on the steering wheel.  "That woman!"

"I was just waiting for you to say something,"  Buffy says.

"As a seasoned pro on the demon circuit, I can tell you that that woman is pure evil,"  Spike says, drumming his fingers on the rim of the steering wheel.  In the old days, he would have been taken Mrs. Singleton's actions as a plea for a speedy separation of skull from spinal column.  An exception should have been made in this case.  Buffy should have allowed him to at least toss her across the room into a table of medical instruments, letting her crash to the floor in a shower of metal.  But she is human.  Buffy even frowned on the idea of his snacking on a would-be mugger one time, so he imagines any act of violence against Mrs. Singleton would have provoked a similar reaction from his lady love, even though the woman was clearly asking for it.

"I kind of felt sorry for Travis,"  Buffy says through a dreary sigh.

"You know, I don't like that boy, but I will tell you that his mother should be very glad that Travis even likes girls, the way she treats him."

"I mean, you believe Dawn, don't you?"

"Of course I do.  She would never lie to us."

"No, not to _us_,"  Buffy says, a minute tingle twitching her lips into a smile.

Spike looks over at her and catches her unannounced expression.  After the evening they've had, a smile is the last thing he expects to see on her face.  "Hey,"  he says, dropping a hand on her shoulder for a brief squeeze.  "What rates a smile on my girl's face?"

"Oh, nothing,"  she says, shining a pair of admiring eyes his way as she leans against the seat.  "Just _us."_

"Us?"

"Yeah.  You and me.  After that whole summer of it just being me with Dawn and second guessing myself and trying to get things right with her through trial and error.   It's nice to have someone to be an us with."

"Even though the us is…_us?"_

She smiles again, linking her fingers with his.  "I only want to be an us with you, sweetheart."


	7. Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

            As the ending credits of _How the __Grinch Stole Christmas begin to roll, Dawn gets up slowly from the sofa, stretches her long arms towards the ceiling and says through a yawn, "Well, that's it for me.  I'm off."_

            "You can't stay up for _Miracle on 34th Street?"  Buffy asks from her seated position of the floor between Spike's knees._

            "I can't stay up for _anything on __any street at this point,"  Dawn replies.  "Bedtime is calling.  And if the Grinch happens down the chimney to steal our Christmas tree...Oh, wait!  We don't have a Christmas tree."_

            "Sorry,"  Buffy strains through a smile.  "I've been kind of busy lately.  I'll go down to the storage room and get it tomorrow.  Then tomorrow night we can make some eggnog, sing some Christmas Carols and decorate it.  Sound like a plan?"

            Dawn twirls a finger around in the air.  "Sounds like a blast.  I'd better rest up for all the mayhem."  She turns and heads down the hall to her room.  "Night, you guys."

            "Good night,"  Buffy and Spike say in unison.

            Buffy scoots over to the VCR and presses the rewind button.  She rented half dozen Christmas-themed flicks that afternoon to get everyone in the spirit, since the mood of the household was decidedly bah-humbug.  Without their mother at the holiday helm, both Buffy and Dawn are having a hard time facing the 25th and Spike, even in his human years, was never the ho ho ho type.  It just occurred to Buffy this afternoon that she hasn't even made plans for Christmas dinner and tomorrow is the 24th.   She wonders if any Chinese restaurants will be open…

            Buffy waits out the tape's rewinding by stretching out of the floor on her stomach and resting her chin on her folded hands.   She is feeling the drowse of having kept her eyes focused on the TV screen for too long a period and she thinks that Dawn had a good idea about going to bed early.

            "So what did you think of the Grinch?"  Buffy asks, stifling a brief yawn.

            "Well, first of all you're talking to a purist,"  Spike says, "I think that the storyline loses something without Dr. Seuss' original poetry.  And Anthony Hopkins may have played Hannibal the Cannibal, but he's no match for Boris Karloff, the best monster portrayer ever, as a narrator.  Take away those elements and all you've got is Jim Carrey running about in a suit of green shag carpeting remnants."

            Buffy smiles in response at her sweetheart's assessment of the film and lays the side of her head on her crossed arms.

            Seeing his ladylove in a prone position, Spike slides off his chair and crabwalks over to where Buffy is lying.  Once beside her, he too stretches out, reaching behind her neck to give her a quick massage.  

            "Speaking of shag,"  he says, close to her ear.  "How about finishing what we started last night?"

            "We can't,"  Buffy says in an exasperated protest, her voice muted against her sleeve.  "Dawn's here."

            "Yeah, I know.  But if we're really quiet…"  he says, tracing a finger down her spine.

            "Honey, no!"  

            "Come on.  Please?"  he asks hopefully, kissing her exposed cheek and whispering into her ear,  "If we take things nice and slow, we won't make much noise."

            "She'll still be able to hear the bed springs."  

            He rolls her over until she is flat on her back.  She gasps in surprise as his hands go to either side of her head, trapping some of her hair between his palms and the carpeting.  "We'll do it on the floor, then,"  he says, his hips undulating above hers.

            "Honey---

            "Please?"  he asks, bringing his head down for a lingering kiss.  "Please?"  followed by another kiss.

            Her arms go around him as he relaxes his body on top of hers.  She loves to kiss him.  If it weren't for the fact that there were other things she liked to do more with him, she would just kiss him all the time, she thinks.  It was such a shock to her, at first, how soft and supple his lips were.  She imagined for the longest time that his mouth would be firm and tough like tanned hide.  But at the first brush, she felt the tenderness and as her lips conformed to his, the truth that his mouth had been expounding on for months;  he loved her.  Even now, when lust is so clearly on his mind and so vividly repeating against her pelvic region, she is reminded of that first sensation that his love for her was real and not just another act of aggression.  What seemed like such secret sin in the beginning now feels just like breathing to her.

            He moves a little to allow his hand to wander between them.  His fingers curve around the mound of soft flesh between her legs and he massages the area through her jeans.  She loosens her mouth long enough to mutter, "Oh, God…" and lays her legs out in a V-shape across the floor.

            "You getting hot for me, baby?"  he purrs between kisses.

            She nods, her head suddenly vibrating with giddiness as her tongue curls around his.

            "You getting wet for me?"  he asks, squeezing her roughly between her legs as though to wring out some of her juices onto his palm.

            "Uh huh,"  she answers.

            "Let Spike see,"  he says in a low growl.

She hears the muted pop of the top button of her jeans being undone.  She feels the feather-light touch of his fingertip circling her navel.  He circles over and over again until she starts to squirm in her ticklishness.  She watches as he lifts the elastic of her panties and lodges two fingers underneath the fabric.  Her moan is instant as his fingers slice into her quivering, moistened flesh, brought up to a ragingly hot temperature at his cold touch.

"For me?"  he asks, nuzzling her cheek.

"Yeah,"  she says as his fingers caress her clitoris.  Regaining enough sense to know what's going on, she slips a hand between them and feels up his trim, muscular thigh until she reaches his crotch.  He moans against her as her fingers cup around his swollen member.  "For me?"

"Always,"  he answers with a smile.

She strokes him from the outside of his jeans as his fingers continue to work their magic between her legs.  When he touches a particularly hot spot, Buffy yowls, "Storage!"

Thinking this is just about the oddest word anyone has ever muttered during foreplay, Spike freezes his fingers and looks into her arousal-mired eyes.

"Come again?"  he asks.

"The storage room,"  she finishes.  "We could go down there and get the Christmas tree tonight."  She reaches up to trace the branched scar in his eyebrow.  "I keep the big couch down there.  The one with all the pillows from the old place?  And there's a pole.  You can tie me up and frisk me if you want,"  she says, segueing into the most sensual rasp he's ever heard her make.

"Well, then I think we need a little Christmas right this very moment,"  he drawls seductively into her ear.

Spike grasps her hand and helps her to her feet.  Her legs are already a little shaky from their foreplay and he steadies her as she buttons her jeans.  Hand in hand, they walk to the door.  Buffy undoes the dead bolt while Spike curls his body around the rise of her behind.  He nibbles the back of her neck as she reaches for the night latch.  

"Darling,"  he says, "why do we have all these bleeding locks on the door?"

"To keep intruders out, silly!"  she says with a slight giggle, feeling his lips tickle the edge of her earlobe. 

"Has it ever occurred to you that if anyone ever tried to break in, the two of us could pulverize the perp into paste?"

Buffy only offers him a look that says, "You should know better than to ask such a question" and flips the deadbolt.

And there, standing before them is a familiar man with a head of raven hair.  His fist is paused mid-air as though he were about to knock.

 "Xander?"  Buffy says, her voice pitched high in surprise. 

Spike takes a breath and mutters,  "Case in point."

 "What are you doing here?"  Buffy asks.

Xander only glares at her and brushes past them.  "OK.  I just want it to be known that I am officially confused about women for life."

Spike rolls his eyes and thinks to himself, "I should have sired the prat when I had the chance the other night.  Then he wouldn't be able to just walk in like he owns the place."

"Uh oh.  What happened?"  Buffy asks as her friend plops down on the loveseat.

"I don't even want to talk about it,"  Xander says, putting his hands behind his head.

"Well, good, because Buffy and I were just on our way out,"  Spike says.

"Honey,"  Buffy warns with a cutting glance.  She returns her good intentions towards Xander.  "Let me guess.  You had a fight with Anya."

Xander exhales a breath, nearly imitating the personification of the North Wind.  "Oh yeah.  A big one.  Like a Tyson/Holyfield bout without the ear munching."

Buffy sits on the edge of the chair nearest the loveseat.  "Was it about the wedding?"

Seeing that Buffy is in helpful friend mode now, Spike takes his sulking into the kitchen.

"They're all about the wedding these days,"  he answers darkly.  "We hardly ever fought until I put that ring on her finger.  I mean, just because _Cosmo says that if a man wants to postpone a wedding, it means that he doesn't want to get married at all, that's the law."_

"You're thinking about postponing the wedding?"

"Just by a few months.  Until September."

"September?  But you're supposed to get married in February."

"Yes, I know that.  And February is just a month away.  I just need more time.  I tried to explain that to her and she just kept saying, 'That means you'll never be ready to get married.'  And I said, 'Yes, I will be ready to be married.  In September.'  I tried to reason with.  I told her that the extra months would give her more time to get all the Martha Stewart details down to the letter about the ceremony and the reception.  Nothing I said seemed to matter.  It all ended with her saying, 'I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, drop dead!'  And when a vengeance demon, former of not, says something like that, I think it's best to clear out and wait for things to blow over."

"That's probably smart,"  Buffy concedes.  "Well, the important thing for you to know is that she doesn't really hate you.  I mean, right now you're not her favorite cuddle toy on the shelf, but that doesn't mean she's going to let you go to a white elephant sale."

"She was getting pretty scarily sentimental about the days when she infested men with penile boils and full-body fungi towards the end of the fight,"  Xander says with a grimace.

"Well, since her pendant was smashed, I don't think you have to worry about…those particular things.  What you need to think about is---

The phone rings from the kitchen.  The bell sounds twice before Buffy has to ask Spike to get it.

Spike comes into the room with the cordless phone in his outstretched hand.

"Shop girl is on the line,"  Spike says.

"Tell her that I'm not talking to her until she calms down and can discuss things rationally,"  Xander says firmly.

"No, you tell her.  I'm not your bleeding message service and I certainly don't mix in affairs involving ex-vengeance demons,"  Spike says, forcing the phone into his hand.

Xander takes a cleansing breath before shouldering the phone.  He pauses before saying, "Anya, if you want to continue the fight via AT&T, I'm turning Sprint, OK?  Look, I said I was sorry and….Anya…An…I know what you've read and I know that---

Anya…Anya, please just listen to me for once and stop yelling!"  Xander's eyes bug out of his head.  "Nice language, An!  Would you kiss D'Offeran with that mouth?"

            Buffy tip-toes out of the room as it appears the discussion they're having is not meant for anyone's ears but their own.  Spike is already there in the kitchen, putting a mug into the microwave.  He drums his fingers on the counter, waiting for the seconds to tick by until the blood is an acceptable 98.6.

            "Hey,"  Buffy says softly, touching her lover's arm.  "I know you're mad, but don't be."

            "All you had to say was that this isn't the right time to pay a pity call,"  Spike growls.

            "Honey, I couldn't turn him away.  I mean, Xander and I share a long history.  He was my friend before anyone else at Sunnydale."

            "Yes, but you made other friends eventually."

            "But he was my first friend.  I can't just tell him what he's going through isn't important to me because it is, especially since he's had to put his life in danger so many times for things that are important to me.  You understand that, don't you, sweetie?"  she asks in a honey sweet voice.

            Spike twists his mouth to one side and presses his thumb against the clear button on the microwave.  After extracting his mug, he takes a pause before drinking, letting Buffy know that he is annoyed by this and he will continue to be annoyed by Xander's presence until the whelp is gone.

            "I understand it.  But that doesn't mean I have to like it,"  Spike says, taking a drink.

            Buffy soothes his arm with a few soft strokes of her hand.  "It'll all be over soon.  They'll talk for a while and then he'll go home.  And then we can be alone,"  she says, laying a promising kiss on his cheek.

"Sure,"  Spike says.  He looks at the time on the microwave.  9:00.   He thinks back on the time he fought with Dru from approximately 9:00 pm to 9:00 am---two days later.  There is a similar fervor to this row.  Only Spike and Dru's fight had been about how Spike wasn't paying enough respect to Miss Edith and she was very cross with him.  The only thing that resolved that tiff was a gentle tea party and a deep apology as Dru bit deep into the neck of a ten year old and later seated the china doll the girl clutched while she died around the miniature table and chairs Dru kept spit shined and cobweb free, even though sometimes they lived in sewers and drank from circus freaks to stay alive.

"It'll all be over soon,"  Buffy reminds him again.

At 12:35 it is still not over.

Buffy goes over to the fridge.  The freezer contains two pints of Ben and Jerry's.  She chooses the Chunky Monkey for Spike, knowing how much he likes something with a bit of texture, and the Cherry Garcia for herself.

Grabbing two spoons from the drawer, she says, "It'll be over soon."  

            "Oh, God,"  Spike says as he's about to stab his spoon into the permafrost of the ice cream.

             "What?"  Buff asks, taking a seat beside him.

            "I just thought of a time that was more annoying than this.  Dru and I were in Prague, staying in a hotel.  The pipes banged all night.  I drove my fist through the wall, jerked out the pipes.  The whole building collapsed around us.  It was daytime.  We were sizzling, trying to find shelter and when we did, we wound up at some youth hostel.  After we killed everyone, we slept on these mealy mattresses and woke up singing the Cider Song. Apparently, that sort of thing is passed on in blood.  No.  Now that I think of it, this is far more annoying,"  Spike says, slurping a renegade droplet of melted ice cream from the side of his hand.  "Not only can I hear what Wanker Boy is saying.  I can also hear his honey through the phone."

            "Really?  Your hearing is that good?"

            "Oh yeah.  Vampire Belltones can pick up just about any sound.  Including the hysteria of a jilted bride to be."  There is still the begging in Xander's voice, the sound of a man who will do anything to please his woman short of scissoring off his balls and becoming a castrato.  There is the tenderness, the continued assurances that he is sorry and he was wrong to think such things and the female response, former demon or not; but honey, the thought that you don't want to marry me…

"Well, he's not really jilting her.  There's still going to be a wedding.  Just not as soon as she planned."

            Spike cocks a thoughtful eyebrow before diving in for more ice cream.  "If you say so."

            "You don't think he wants to marry her?"  Buffy asks, spooning a bite into her mouth.

            "Oh, I don't even care at this point.  So what if I don't get to wear my tux for Shop Girls' nuptials.  There'll be other times.  Such as when we do our James Bond role-playing games,"  Spike says, hiking the toe of his boot up Buffy's pants' leg.

            "I'd feel bad for Anya if they did call it off.  I mean, it's all she's talked about for months."

            "I know,"  Spike says, thinking back on all the times he's opened the door of the Magic Box, sending the post-it notes on Anya's seating chart fluttering in the draft.  "But at least it's given her something else to ruminate about other than profits, losses and wolf bane."

            Buffy twists the side of her mouth to one side and stirs her ice cream glumly.  "I wonder if she and that troll were ever engaged.  From what I remember, he wasn't a troll when they were dating.  He was just some big, dumb guy, she said."

            Spike blasts a snort through his nose.  "Do you see a pattern here?"

            Just then, Xander's hushed whispers go up a few decibels.  

            "Anya, what the hell more do you want from me? I'm already working 70-hour weeks as it is.  I'm going to be paying for that ring on your finger until our kids are old enough to get married.  Do you want me to take a second job?  Is that it?  So then we don't see each other at all?  Is that how you want it?"

            No is the answer to all these questions.  Spike hears the answers in one long, screaming sob that nearly deafens him.  "Blast!"  he says, dropping his spoon into the ice cream tub and shoving himself away from the table.   "This is bloody ridiculous.  I'm gonna---

            "Sh…He'll hear you!"  Buffy cautions.

            "I hope he does hear me.  They can carry this on in their own apartment."

            "Spike, come on,"  she says, running her hand up his arm, giving his bicep a brief squeeze.  "If he and Anya don't get things resolved, he'll need someone to talk to, meaning best friend and best man will be called on for tea and sympathy."

            "I'll not waste the rest of my evening counseling that glorified brick layer for all the bloody tea in China!"

            "Honey, calm down."

            Spike takes his head in his hands for a second, counting slowly to ten.  Once his head stops pounding, he is able to speak on some conversational level again.  "I've just been sitting here, thinking as I'm licking this ice cream off the spoon, I'd much rather be licking it off you, in the privacy of our bedroom.  Is one night alone with my sweetheart too much to ask for?"

            "Spike, what am I supposed to do?  Say, 'Yeah, Xander, you once saved my life and you've helped me prevent six apocalypses in the last five years, but I'm horny and I really wish that you'd go home so that I can have sex with my boyfriend'?"

            "Now, there's an idea!"

            "Spike,  that's not what a friend would say.  And I would never say that anyway.  You've had times when you really had to talk to someone about a problem.  You talked to my mother about your break-up with Dru.  She didn't tell you to go away.  Even though she probably should have because at the time you weren't the safest gun in the rack."

            The memory of being alone in the quiet kitchen with Buffy's caring mother sparks a smile on Spike's face.  Spike had only met Joyce once before and their first encounter had been less than amicable.  Had she the strength of her warrior daughter, Joyce could have crushed his skull with that axe.  But on their second meeting, she was kind to him, gave him hot cocoa and a forum in which to air his grief and bitterness over the loss of his then beloved.  

            "She was a sweet lady, your mother,"  Spike says with an emotional crackle in his voice.  "I asked for little marshmallows and she looked through the cupboards for them.  Made me feel all cozy and cared for."

            "That was Mom,"  Buffy says, drawing a hand through Spike's stiff locks.  She settles her head on his shoulder and kisses the side of his face, her lips landing squarely on the hollow of his cheekbone.   "As much as I love you, I just really need to be here for Xander right now.  And after he's gone, we can be alone, OK?"

            "OK,"  he replies through a heavy sigh.  

            "And, hey.  If Dawn's been able to sleep through all of this so far, she might sleep through…something else that tends to get a little loud,"  she says, snapping her teeth over the upper curve of Spike's ear.  "What's the score on the argument now?"  she whispers.

            "Still at nil, love,"  he's able to say in a contented voice, with Buffy so near and her hands stroking his hair.  "She's still on about the postponement and he's still trying to justify it."

            "Hopefully it will be over soon,"  Buffy says.

            At 7:35 am, Xander bounds into the kitchen, clapping his hands together so hard that it whiplashes Spike from his facedown position on the table, but his sweetheart remains comatose.  

            "Well, make sure your tux is pressed and ready to go on September 24 because that's the new date for the Xanman's bachelorhood wake,"  Xander says with remarkable enthusiasm, given the early hour.

            Spike is unable to open his eyes, which is just as well because he knows the sight of Xander beaming in their kitchen after holding them hostage with his pre-marital spat the night before might just make him do something stake-worthy.

            "Yeah?"  he says groggily.  "Well, congratulations."

            "I was finally able to get through to her that it just made sense to extend the engagement.  You know, Anya's been around for a long, long time and has met tons of demon-types.  But the thing is, they don't always have street addresses.  This will give her more time to send feelers out for some of the friends she's had to leave off the guest list because she couldn't find them."

            "The more demons the merrier,"  he says.

            "Yeah,"  Xander replies.  "You know, come to think of it, that might not be such a bright idea after all.  If the demon force outnumbers the human contingent, there might be trouble.  Maybe we'd better keep the wedding date as it is."

            "Harris!"  Spike barks.   "A bit of advice from someone who knows what he's talking about.  If you're onto a good thing, don't do anything to muck it up."

            "I guess you're right.  We're on speaking terms now, which is more than I had hoped for last night.  Listen, thanks so much for putting up with everything.  And when Buffy wakes up, tell her thanks too."

            "Will do."

            Once Spike hears the front door close, he reaches over for Buffy.

            "Hey.  Buffy.  Wakey, wakey.  The whelp's gone,"  he says in a sharp whisper while jostling her by the shoulders.

            "Hmmm,"  she returns, semi-conscious.

            "Buffy, we can be alone now.  Xander's gone, love."

            "What time is it?"  she asks, in a voice muffled by the crook of her elbow.

            "Just about half past seven."

            Buffy raises her head drowsily, still not quite able to focus. "It's sleepytime."

            "Not now, Buffy,"  Spike says encouragingly, lending her a supporting arm.  "Not after we waited all night for him to leave.  This is our time, anyway.  Remember?  Morning nookie, better than a cookie?"

            She groans and rests her head on her shoulder.  "But I'm tired…"

            "If you're tired, then I'll get on top.  You won't have to move a bit.  Let me do all the work.  Just a quick one, sweetheart.  In and out and that's all."

            "Did you guys stay up all night eating ice cream?"  Dawn's voice sounds from the door.

The sudden arrival of a third party on the scene spurs Buffy into sudden wakefulness.  With blurry eyes, she zeroes in on the three empty containers of ice cream overturned on the table, including the generic brand of vanilla which has resided in the freezer ever since Buffy moved in.   "Oh, God!  I think I'm going to puke!"  She excuses herself from the table and dashes for the bathroom.

After watching her sister's speedy retreat down the hallway, Dawn turns again to Spike.  "Was I dreaming, or was Xander here at some point last night?"

"Yeah, he was here, Nibblet,"  Spike, rising slowly from the table in near exhaustion.  

"What was he doing here?"

Spike looks at the melting remains of the ice cream he and Buffy devoured with such reckless abandon the night before.  "We thought he was looking for some little marshmallows,"  he says, beginning to clear off the empty cartons and sticky spoons from the table.  "Turns out he didn't need them."


	8. Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Spike looks down at the jumbled mess of tree lights on his lap, feeling like a three-toed sloth trying to make a cats in the cradle out of silly string.

            "So, what possessed you to tie these lights into knots when you took them off the tree last year?" Spike asks grumpily, lifting the strands off his lap.

            "We didn't."  Dawn replies.  "They just always end up that way somehow.  It's like some tree light conspiracy.  I think they miss being all lit up and shiny, so they take out their revenge by playing Twister between seasons."

            Spike laughs a little as he tries again to pick apart one particularly difficult knot.  "There was a time when people put real candles on real trees,"  he says glumly, looking over at the artificial Douglas Fur awaiting _O Tannenbaum_ status.

            "Yeah, and people's houses went up in smoke because they put real fire on real flammable trees."

            "In those days, we cut our trees down ourselves.  They didn't have a chance to shrivel up and die in a car park beside a trailer."

            Dawn looks over at the tree, remembering combing the aisles in Target, looking for the perfect one.  This was it, attractively priced at $89.95.  And it would never die.  Her mother was tired of her tears when their real trees got kicked to the curb after the holidays, so the artificial route seemed to be the way to go.  Her mother burned greenery-scented candles to create the illusion of having a real tree in the house.  All of Buffy's candles are called things like "mists of love" and "sensual splendor."  Not exactly the stuff of sugarplum dreams.  

            "You all right, Bit?"  Spike asks, seeing her far-away look.

            "Yeah,"  she says, shaking off any more emerging memories of Christmases past.  "Jeez!  You still haven't gotten that knot untied?"

            "No.  And I'm about to rip this bloody thing apart,"  he says, taking the strands in his fists, pantomiming the threat without actually carrying through with it.  

            Seeing this subtle display of masculine pride, Dawn says teasingly, "I'll bet if Travis were here, he could get it undone.  He's got such long, limber fingers."

            "And I'll bet that's what first attracted you to him.  'Oh,'"  he says, blanketing his baritone with a lilting alto to mimic Dawn's voice, "'He has such wonderfully long, slim fingers.  He could undo a lot of gnarled tree lights.'"

            Dawn giggles.  "Actually, I liked the way his hair fell in his eyes all the time.  Still do."

            "I guess that does up his stakes in the good catch category.  If he can't see you for all the hair in his eyes, then you don't have to fuss too much about your appearance."

            "Oh, he sees me just fine."  A frown slowly builds on her face and she drops her eyes.  "But I don't know if he'll be seeing me anytime soon.  His parents grounded him into oblivion because of the accident."

            "Well, that doesn't seem fair."

            "His parents are weird.  I mean, you saw them.  They freak out all the time about stupid shit.  Like, one time Travis forgot to pick up the grass clippings after he mowed the lawn.  His mother locked up his Playstation for a week.  It's funny.  Whenever I'm over at Travis' house, his mother is always super nice to me.  She's always getting me stuff from the fridge and asking me about my classes and stuff.  She asks me how Buffy's doing and all.  But I get the feeling that it's all just a show.  That she really doesn't like me and hates the fact that I'm going out with her son."

            "Probably because she has it in that harridan head of hers that she should be the only woman in Travis' life.  I've known mothers like that.  Point of fact, I had a mother like that."

            "I don't know.  She makes me really uncomfortable sometime.  The way she looks at me.  Like she's thinking about killing me while she's serving me milk and cookies.  And I know that look.  I mean, I have grown up in Sunnyhell and I did have some Limited addict god wanting to express me to death."  Dawn entwines her fingers in the web of green wires and darkened lights that appear as blood droplets on Spike's lap. "That's one thing about you.  I mean, even in your Big Bad days, you never looked at me as though you wanted to kill me."

            Spike eyes her and smiles.  The monks probably supplied her many memories of sibling rivalry and bitter strife over just whom would be the worthy recipient of the prize in the cereal box.  The first Dawn memory for him occurred on a darkened street.  The Nibblet was outside her school, waiting for a parent pick-up.  Her eyes were defined in deep black and her face was tanned from stage make-up.  She shivered as Dru drizzled a command in Spike's ear in her spider web poetry.  "That's the girl…the Slayer's sister.  She makes shapes in the air that don't make life."  He wondered then what she meant, but didn't ask her.  He saw Dawn and it was as though a shield went up.  He couldn't touch her.  Whatever sweetness Angelus had seen in Dru and wanted to destroy, Spike saw ten fold in Dawn and wanted to maintain.  He saw Dawn step up into the front seat of the SUV, into her mother's enthusiastic embrace.  "I'm so proud of you, Dawn,"  the elder Summers said.  He then saw the sign outside the school, all lit up.  "_Our Town_.  Presented by the Sunnydale Juniors.  8:00."  Dawn only had a walk-on part, she explained to her mother.  She didn't have any lines.  Dru urged him again, "That's the girl.  Her fire is of copper old."  But by that time Dawn and her mother had driven away and Spike breathed  a sigh of relief.

            "I could never kill you,"  Spike says. 

            "Yeah.  Because you knew my sister was the Slayer and she would kick your ass,"  Dawn says, pursing her lips in a certain victory as she pulls a knot free on the string of lights. 

            He looks at her now, her little girl features falling away to the natural nips and tucks of early adulthood.  There is something about this girl that eternally bemuses his heart and makes it warm.   He secretly loved the times when she came to his crypt.  When Buffy placed her mother and Dawn in his care, and Dawn didn't like _Passions_, he found something that they did like.  _Judge Judy_.  He remembers how they both rooted for the plaintive, whose lawn had been continuously used as a toilet by a Rottweiler whose owners didn't give a shit.  He remembers Joyce's sudden headache and Dawn's concern.  "Mom, are you all right?"  she said.  And he was concerned as well.  Up until that point he didn't know he cared.  More importantly, he showed Dawn he _could_ care.

"Yeah.  That's it,"  Spike finally answers.

            Buffy enters the room carrying a large pitcher of thick, yellow liquid and a stack of red Solo cups she swiped from the Bronze before it closed for the Holidays.  

            "Who wants eggnog?"  she asks cheerily, setting the pitcher down on the coffee table.      

            Both Dawn and Spike spring up from their seats to join Buffy over by the coffee table.  They each take a cup while Buffy swirls the traditional Christmas grog around with a ladle.  

            "Now, you guys can have all you want.  I won't be partaking,"  Buffy says, putting a hand to her stomach.

            "Why?  Did you make it?"  Spike asks warily.

            Buffy gives him a leveling glare.  "No!  It's just that I'm still a little queasy from last night's telethon with Ben and Jerry's kids."

            Spike lifts his tumbler for a ladle full.  After it's filled to the rim, he takes a sip.  "Hmmm…this is missing something."

            "Really?  I sprinkled some nutmeg in it for flavor."

            "I'm sensing that this is a whole lot more egg than it is nog, Buffy,"  he says, smacking his lips together.

            "You want nog, go get your flask.  With two underagers in the house, I left the bourbon out."

            "And I suppose we're doing without the traditional Christmas crackers as well?"

            "Crackers?"  Buffy asks.  "We have some saltines.  Do they count?"

            Spike takes his cup, grumbling about how Christmas has certainly changed since he was human.

            The Christmas spirit is finally ignited when the lights are unstrung and hung on the branches of the scentless tree.  Buffy does light some candles, some vanilla scented ones that almost smell like the eggnog they are drinking.   She thinks the spell she is attempting to cast is working when Spike begins to hum _The Christmas Song_.  Then he begins to sing:

            "Chester roasting on an open fire.  Jack Frost ripping off your nose.  You'll find Carol being hung by a pyre and vamps as white as Eskimos."

            "Very good, Spike,"  Dawn says as she fixes a glass ball ornament to the tree.  

            "You think?"

            "Oh, yes.  Instant classic,"  Buffy says, adjusting her ornament on the tree.  "Somewhere up in heaven, Bing Crosby is kicking himself for wasting his time in the studio recording that _White Christmas_ crap."

            Dawn is standing over the shoebox of ornaments, one hand on her hip as she ruts through the jumble of shiny glass balls and ceramic figurines.  "Buffy, I thought we had more ornaments than this."

            "We did.  A lot of them were broken in the move."

            "Hey!"  Dawn says, pointing a finger at her sister, "What ever happened to that snowman we used to have?  You know.  The one that lit up?"  

            "I don't know.  I found him all smashed up in the basement shortly after Spike roomed with him,"  Buffy says wisely, gazing at her nonchalant lover who is piercing a limb with a Barbie collectible ornament.  "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, sweetheart?"

            "Not at all,"  Spike says, continuing to busy himself with the ornament's placement on the tree. 

            "Where's that snow baby ornament we got last year?"  Dawn asks.  "Ah.  Here it is."  She strides back over to the tree, leaving her sister to dig around for her next selection.

"Buffy, since I'm not too particular about what I'm putting on the tree, you want to hand me another ornament?"  Spike asks.

There is silence from her. 

"Buffy, could you---

But then he sees her.

            He sees the angel in one hand.  The star in the other.  The angel, favored, in the right hand.  And she looks at longingly.    

            And he sees enough.  

            Buffy walks into their bedroom as she normally does, yawning, stretching, clothed in her pilled, flannel pajamas for this time of year.  Little snowmen sled down the snowy landscape of her sleepwear.  But tonight is mild.  Tonight is less than Christmasy.  Tonight is balmy and warm.  Buffy smoothes lotion onto her forearms right before climbing into bed.  Spike is already there, up to his abs in blankets, remembering still.      "Well, I can tell it's Christmas,"  she says, pulling back the covers and sliding in beside him.  "I'm completely exhausted and have lost the will to go on."  She yawns again and plumps up her pillow.  "Look, for Christmas dinner tomorrow, I've decided to go the non-fussy route.  We're just having a regular meal, OK?  No goose, no stuffing, no cranberry sauce.  Just some hamburgers and mac and cheese.  I'm not even going to attempt being traditional just to have you and Dawn make faces at each other across the table."

            Spike says nothing, wondering how in the world she can be so complacent while beside her, a storm rages.

            She giggles a little and draws sleepily against his forearm.  "Dawn's going to be so excited when she sees that laptop.  I want that to be the first thing she opens.  No!  I want it to be the last thing.  Make her wait for it. Make her think she's not getting it."

            Her sister is the one who's not getting it, he thinks darkly, shifting his body until he lies against her in a comma, his face pressed against his pillow.

            "I just can't believe it was that cheap.  I mean, I've looked at all the catalogs and have gone to all the office supply stores for months and months and I've never even seen one priced that low.  That was some sweet deal.  Are you sure you didn't pull a Winona?"

            A blast of Spike's heated exhalation tunnels through his pillow.  "Look.  I got Dawn the sodding lap top.  I showed you the bleeding receipt.   What, do you want me to tell the sales clerk to show up on Christmas morning for verification?  His name was Chip.  Ironically enough."   He closes his eyes.  "If I were Angel, you'd just assume I had done something noble and right to get Dawnie's laptop."

            "What the hell brought that on?"

            He frowns_.  _"You were thinking about him tonight."

            "When?"

            "Oh, come on!"

            "No, when was I thinking about him?"

            "When you were holding the bloody star and the angel, that's when!"

            "The star and the angel?  The toppers for the tree?  Oh, honey---

            "I _know_ you were thinking about him."

            "I was thinking about how Mom used to ask us if we wanted the angel or star on top."

            "I can only guess which one got your vote," he snorts.

            "Oh, Spike.  Don't be like this."

            "Funny you should say that because if I weren't like this, you wouldn't even walk down from your ivory tower to chuck me on the chin."

            "What's that supposed to mean?"

            He swivels about to face her, sending the covers into wild torrents of waves.  "Like this.  Cold.  Dead.  Without a pulse."

            "Spike---

            "Tell me that my touch doesn't remind you of him!"

            Her eyebrows knit a warning flare.  "Shh!  Quiet!  You'll wake---

            "Tell me that you don't think of him when you're in my arms!"

            "---Dawn."

            "Tell me he's not on your mind the whole fucking time when I'm inside of you!"

            "That's enough!"  she shouts, equaling the tenor of his rants.   A vein on her neck emerges like a slow, slithering eel under her skin.  He sees her green eyes flash and for a minute sees nothing but pure demon blazing on the inside.

            The room is quelled by an abrupt hush that entombs the two of them in a bitter silence.   Buffy's body is tense next to him and she flits at the sleeves of her worn pajamas with a jittery hand.   He knows she is thinking about ways to undo this, to wrap everything up in a neat little bundle and make it all pretty and perfect.  But what they are is never pretty, certainly never perfect.  They are nature's anomaly, a projectile of fisted rebellion against the order of things.   He looks down at the sheets that are knotted in his calloused hands.  Floral, combed cotton, textured in their togetherness.  Their mingling scents waft up from the fabric and he nearly succumbs to the ether of her sweet vanilla and his own aroma of old oak and soil.  This is the bed where he first made love to her, where he first came to the realization that she was fire and sunlight and all the elements that could kill him.  They sink into this cocoon of warmth and softness every night, spooning, kissing, nibbling, touching, loving.  But at times like these, even as he lies beside her, he realizes he's closer to being that desperate creature, chaining up his love in the catacombs of his crypt, begging her for some confirmation that the something that has been between them since their first encounter is what he has been seeking all his life.

            He turns slowly towards her.  He feels her inch away.  He has invited something into their bed this evening, something that has always had a place under the covers, but until now has been banished.  What is it in her eyes now?  A comparison, a mental note taking of everything he is in relation to everything she wants?  She is loved by a demon, a soulless creature that shares her bed, shares her life.  He sees the questions in her eyes and wants nothing more than to kiss them away, but that's not what she needs.  The specter of Angel looms heavily over their bed.  He can almost see his grandsire's boyish face in the eyes of the girl whose inquiring gaze is nearly pulverizing him with fear.

            "I do still think about him,"  she says quietly, dropping her eyes to her hands, at once hoping he hasn't heard her and hoping he has heard her clearly.  She hears a catch in his throat, but cannot yet look at him.   "But never when we're together."

            "Why…HOW could you still have thoughts of him?"

"I'm sorry.  I just do.  He was my first love.  Not so easy to forget.  It's not like you wake up one day and the three years you loved someone don't matter anymore.   I wish sometimes that that were possible.  But part of me doesn't want to forget that time.  Because I can look back and see how much I have changed, how much I have grown.  How much I have gotten away from that person I was.  I really was a different person then, Spike.  I was a baby.  I looked to Angel as someone who could protect me, who could teach me about what I was and what I was about.  But I know who I am now.  I don't need someone to define me anymore.  I just need someone to love me, to be with me, to care for me and the things that are important in my life."  She reaches for him, terrified that her touch will propel him further away.   She pulls his face to hers, pressing her forehead against his, until all she can see are those two giant orbs of blue pooling into one.   "You're everything to me.  You're…my partner.  You're my lover.  You're the person I always turn to because I know I can and you'll be there for me, no matter what.  I don't even feel like a whole person when you're not with me.  It's like I'm always looking around for what's missing.  And I find it when I'm in your arms again."

A thought occurs to him, one that formed in his mind the first night he slept with her and awoke at three in the morning to find her bathed in moonlight, her arms spanning the width of his chest and her breath falling softly on his skin.  "You lie very sweetly, love."

When he says this, she is glad for him that she isn't the person she once was.  A remark like that would have sent him the way of dusty death just a year ago.  She is not a liar.  She had told him the truth.  She does think about Angel.  Only because she can't _not _think about him.  But not when Spike is close.  When he is close she only thinks about him because he drains her of all rational thought until she is babbling incoherently in her mind, "I love this man…I love this man…"

The Buffy she was a year ago wouldn't even attempt to do what she is about to initiate.

She loosens her hands from his head and drops them to the first button on her pajamas.   Like a proud mare, she tosses her fallen hair away from her eyes so that she can look at him while she undresses.   He is watching her, holding that awe-filled stare he had the first night she allowed him to kiss her and hold her.  She tosses the pajama top aside, and then brings her attention to the elastic waistband of the bottoms.  She slides them off, slowly, and sends them onto the floor.  Naked now, she straddles him, taking his face in her hands again and kissing his mouth.  

Against his lips, she breathes, "Spike, I love you.  I love you so much."  She fuses her lips with his scarred eyebrow, tracing the trenches with the point of her tongue.  "I love everything about you,"  she continues, licking down his face, down to his neck.  She tries to find the scar that Drusilla left years ago in the fetid alleyway when he asked for rebirth.  Time has healed that wound.  There's nothing left but smooth, silvery skin.  She kisses him there and then hooks her lips around the projection of his collarbone.  She latches onto his left nipple and fondles the right.  "Let me make love to you, Spike,"  she shudders in a whisper.  Her mouth now is taking on the landscape of the quilted flesh of his abs.  She licks the outline of each precious square and notes with pleasure that his member is rising slowly to meet her gaze.  "Let me make love to you."

She doesn't wait for a response.  Fully in control, she squares her hips with his and lowers herself onto him, bit by bit.  She allows him to feel that sensation of being cloaked in her warmth before rocking against him, slowly.  The lamplight reveals everything.  He looks down and can see where they are joining, becoming one.  He looks up at her face and sees the power there and feels it all around him as her inner muscles clamp around him and he sees heaven and hell combined in a surreal portrait of his own life and death.

He fills his hands with the soft contours of her backside and rams his head against his pillow as her pilfering of his being becomes more insistent and more demanding.

"Deeper," she murmurs, bowing her body until her torso lies between his legs. 

He rises from his prone position and takes command, drilling into her now, moving with the swiftness of fire.  She drapes her legs over his shoulders and he drives into her so deeply she has to cup a hand over her mouth to stave off a scream.  He couldn't stop moving, even if she did produce a stake at this point and drive it through his poor, lost heart.  

There is one last thrust.  Every muscle in his body jumps in her embrace.  She too is aware that her body is moving involuntarily.  When he starts to slip away from her heated walls, she grabs him in objection.

"No!"  she warns.

He is snared by the panic in her eyes and the urgency in her grasp.  Sudden understanding floods him and he soothes her by stroking her hair and kissing her softly.

"I'm not ever going to leave you, Buffy,"  he says against her cheek.

"Promise?"  

"Angel left you.  I left you once and it almost killed me."

Angel left me because he wanted me to have a chance at a normal life, Buffy thinks to herself.  What she has with Spike will never be normal.  It may never even be a life.  But it is all theirs.  She knows this when she feels his hand reaching for hers and she smells their collective scents rising from the ashes of their lovemaking, so soft and sweet.  A garden of topsoil and flowers, given breath by a forbidden sun.

"My William…"  she whispers, trailing a hand down his back as he settles against her breast.

"Always,"  is his sleepy answer.

Across town at St. Catherine's Chapel, the parishioners stand in pew after pew of soft candlelight.  The hidden organist lays his hand on the keys and creates the melody they are all following in various pitches and tones.  It is midnight now, Christmas, the holiest day of the Christian Calendar.  

Travis Singleton stands between his mother and father, holding onto the hymnal, but not looking at its pages, nor does he sing with the rest.  His eyes are watching faces of the faithful around him, their sullen expressions shadowed in the flickering of the candles they hold.   Twice his mother nudges him, a silent entreaty for him to join in the song.  He will sing for a couple stanzas, and then continue to peruse the neighboring pews, watching, trying to see if what is in their faces comes even close to what he's seeing in his mother's haunted expression.

His mother's face is shaded at once in dread and hope, something that becomes more apparent and more shocking in the defusing light on the candle in her hand.  The tears began when her lips formed the words, "Mother and child" and they continue to fall in time with the wax.  She alternately closes her eyes, then throws them open wide as though having a revelation in her head.  At the moment she is staring ahead, the words on the hymn on her lips.  On the last verse, she coaxes Travis to sing once more and he refreshes his memory by glancing at the first line.

By this time, he notices that his mother is not singing at all.  He inclines his ear closer to her so that he can hear her words and when he does, he knows she's not thinking about anything related to the silent night of the song.  There is another birth on her mind.  One she has been talking about non-stop since they arrived in Sunnydale.  One that was on her mind even when the movers broke some of her finest china and she had to remind herself once again that they were all there for a reason and even a petty annoyance like that would be worth it in time.  

"The child will come, the child will come,"  his mother keeps whispering, her eyes now fixed on the altar and Christ's stricken form on the cross. 

Midway through the last verse,  many voices have abandoned the tune and are now whispering as well, a murmur that sounds like a low rumbling, as though the building itself is groaning inwardly.  By the time the organist reaches the end, there are no more voices raised in song; there are only frantic whispers and a building hysteria that is making Travis shift in his shoes, feeling as though the floor might give way any minute and swallow them all whole.   Put them all in their place, including him, for ever going along with their desires.  

"The child will come, the child will come" resounds from floor to rafters until the minister takes the pulpit, raises his hand and snaps the congregation to collective attention.  

"Merry Christmas to all.  And to all a goodnight,"  he says.

With that, it seems whatever rapture had the parishioners by the throat loosens its hold and slowly smiles appear on their faces again.  The candles are snuffed and smoke forms a dark, floating cloud that rises to the ceiling and billows over much hand shaking and deep embracing from parishioner to parishioner.  Travis doesn't escape the fray as he is nearly tacked and man-handled by Mavis Gulch who brands him with a spittle-laden lipstick kiss and tells him how much he's grown in the last year.  His mother is laughing now, talking excitedly with a woman in a light blue suit with an enormous Christmas tree brooch pinned to her lapel.  His mother is complimenting her on it, saying she almost bought one just like it the other day.  Travis squirms, knowing that once they get into the car, his mother's laughter will bray through many insults about not only the woman's choice of jewelry, but her mousy attire as well.  

The five a.m. alarm sounds in the form of Spike's gasp as he wakes once more from the same dream that seems to be a permanent residence in his subconscious, rediscovered night after night, never changing, never straying from the same frightening narrative.  And his reaction is just the same as ever, as though it is occurring for him the first time all over again.

            But this time Buffy and he are facing each other, both wide eyed, both breathless.

"We're standing on a cliff together,"  Buffy begins slowly through labored breath.  There's heat and fire all around.   It looks like the whole world is in flames.  We have to hold onto each other to keep from falling because the earth is crumbling under us.  I'm crying because there's something that I want you to do.   I don't even know what it is until I see your face change and your mouth comes close to my neck and you bite me."  She winces at the word _bite_ and strikes the curve of her balled fist against his heaving chest.  Her eyes find his in the darkness.  "Is that your dream?"

"Yes,"  he replies at length.  "But how did you---

She brings her fingertips to his lips, tracing the gentle curves of the mouth that so vividly snarled in her dream as he bit down deep into her flesh.  "I just had had it too."


	9. Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

            A sharp "ching" resounds in the air as Spike's axe meets with the chain mail of the Hollaran demon he's been sparring with for nearly a quarter of an hour.  He's tired of throwing punches.  It is way beyond the time for the big guns.  Buffy jumps on the demon's back, wrapping her slender arms around the thick, football player width of the demon's neck.  She pulls upward and then to the left.  No jubilant cracking noise results.

            "No, no, Buffy.  Hollaran's don't have spines, love,"  Spike coaches as the blade of his axe collides again with his adversary's breastplate.   "You can't break their necks."

            "No spines?"  she asks, right before the demon pitches her to the ground.  She springs back, her spine still in tact, her fists at the ready.  "How do they walk?"

            The demon spews some gibberish that makes Spike laugh.

            "I'm a little rusty on the Hollaran's lexicon of late, but I think he said that they walk over graves of Slayers."  He addresses the demon.   "Two years ago, I would have been right with you on that sentiment, but now, you're talking about he lady of my heart."  The smile on his face nearly matches the gleam of the blade in the milky moonlight as he charges again.

            OK, I guess I'm useless again, Buffy thinks, wrapping her arms around her and taking a rest on the closest tombstone.  It all wasn't a loss, though.  She did stake three fledglings.  One who was dressed in a Backstreet Boys tee shirt.  She is especially proud of this kill.  Not only did she prevent this vamp from lunching on countless victims, but she also kept the poor girl from having to witness the sad demise of the once proud TRL faves.  

            "So who wears chain mail these days, eh?"  Spike asks, taking another swipe at his growling prey.  "Aside from you and Cher.  At least Cher has a new hit single."  His blade nears the demon's heart, but not close enough to kill him; just enough to startle him and put him off his game.  "What have you got?"

            Green blood flows from the demon's chest and the monster dabs at it with a disbelieving paw.  He growls something which Buffy interprets as, "You gave me an owie!"  and he lunges for Spike.  Ever the agile terrier of a man, Spike sidesteps the advance.

            "You have to do better than that if you want to send me to the mat,"  Spike says, flipping the axe in his hand like a smug bartender with a bottle of Skye.  "I've got brains and brawn.  And I'm bloody pissed off that you won't die already!"

            As the demon rises to the challenge once again, Spike cuts him low.  In one swift lowering of the blade, he divides the demon's head into two neat halves.  Spike can't be too amused by the sight of the demon going cross eyed, looking at his own brains flowing between the crevice the blade has created.  When the demon falls to his knees and eventually lands on his back, that's when the real work comes in.  The mucousy gray matter flows onto the grass and Spike doesn't waste any time stamping it out with the toe of his muddied black boots.

            "And that,"  Spike pants, watching the demon dissolve into quivering orange jello, "is how you kill a Hollaran demon."  He congratulates himself, watching the goo ooze through the blades of grass and pool by the grave of a doctor who probably charged too much for patient visits and deserves worse than having a demon's remains slime his limestone monument.   "You never get used to the smell, though.  That odor of rotting peat moss combined with a homeless man's shoe leather?  Awful stuff.  But he's gone now.  His bretheren will be out for our blood soon enough.  You up for another round, Buffy?"  He expects her to be somewhere near and within whispering distance.  "Buffy?" he questions in the darkness, to no one, apparently.  He swivels his head around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, somewhere.  His eyes come up empty of her.  But then he hears something.  A retching sound, not close, but just close enough and far away enough for her to run to and try to disguise her disgust.

            He rushes in the direction of the moans he is hearing now and finds her, about fifty yards from where he killed the demon.  She is clinging fiercely to the face of a tombstone, her cheek pressed against the cold stone.  The moonlight reveals a fine spray of finely chopped vegetables on the face of the tombstone, as though someone has flung a can of soup against the engraving.

            "You all right?"  he asks.

            "Fine,"  she says as she gulps down another wave of sickness.  "Must gave been something I ate."

            He thinks about supper.  She stirred soup in a saucepan slowly for at least and hour and a half and when she finally sat down, it took her almost as long to finish it.

            "You're not becoming one of those Ally McBulimics, are you?"  he asks.

            "Oh, please, Spike!  I know I'm skinny, but it's all because of the job.  I mean, a good slaying night shaves off at least 1200 calories.  Not that I'm counting."

            He sits down beside her on the cold, wet ground.  A period of intermittent rain showers has made the soil malleable and soft.  The dirt contours to his backside as she curls into his embrace.  

            "So bad soup made you give this poor man a post-mortem tribute he never planned on,"  he says, kissing her forehead and looking at the inscription on the grave.

            "Oh!  Sorry, Mr..."  She squints and tries to pronounce the name on the tomb, "Scantalopoliliseski?"

            "You weren't so quick with the apologies a week ago,"   Spike has to chuckle.   "He was a vampire.  You slayed him last Tuesday."

            "Oh well, then.  No worries!"  she brightens.

            Her smile is tired and strained, and even in the dim, he can see her color is almost as green as the blood shed by the demon Spike just killed.  "If you're feeling sickly, you don't need to be out in this dampness.  Come on.  Let's get you home into a warm bath."

            "Mmm…that sounds good,"  she muses, allowing Spike to help her to her unsteady feet.  "You lead the way."

            Spike bursts through the door of the magic shop, a scowl on his face and purpose in his step.  "Nice try, Buffy.  I did some checking.  Turns out, _In the Bedroom_ isn't a porn flick.  It's some angst-ridden weepy with that schizo bird from _Carrie_."

            "Fine,"  Buffy answers, too tired after her training to fight with him.  "We can see another movie.  It doesn't have to be that one.  I just don't want to see another movie that makes me feel as though I've damaged a chromosome watching it."  She takes a swig of her water.  "Let me just get my coat and I'll be ready to go."

            Spike is slipping on her coat when Giles approaches. 

 "So it's a night out, is it?" he asks.

            "Yeah,"  Buffy says, whipping her hair out of the back of the coat.  "I'm not Bronzing it tonight.  After ten straight days being called, 'Miss' and 'Hey you', I think I'm owed some time alone in the dark with someone who can actually call me by my name."

            Giles' expression turns ashen as though he's thinking of the unseemly scenario Buffy could be suggesting.  Then realization comes upon him.  "Oh, right.  The pictures."

            Spike cannot contain the satisfaction on his face from seeing Buffy's Watcher so visibly shaken by thoughts of the two of them in the dark.  He can almost hear the "wah wah" guitar porn music playing inside Giles' head.

            "See you later, Giles.  I'll be in tomorrow before work."  Buffy turns in Spike's arm to leave.

            "Oh Buffy,"  Giles calls before she makes it to the door.  "I hope you feel better."

            Out the door and into the night air, as the tinkling of the bell inside is silenced, Spike asks her, "So what was that all about?"

            "What?"

            "The 'hope you feel better' wish from your Watcher."

            "Oh,"  she says, waving a hand in front of her.  "It's nothing."  Secretly, she is berating her Watcher, wondering how someone with such thin lips could have such a big mouth.

            "Did you sick up again?"

            "No."

            "Well, then?"

            "What?  It was _nothing_!"

            "Buffy…"

            She exhales sharply, fretting with the buttons on her coat.  "Well, there was this one thing."

            "And what was that?"

            "I sort of…sort of had a fainty thing during training today."

            "What?"  he blasts.

            "No biggie!  I didn't actually faint.  I just got kind of light headed and had to sit down with my head between my knees for a few minutes.  Then I was all better."

            Spike purses his lips and studies her for a few minutes.  He says nothing; just puts a hand to her back and guides her gently in the direction of his car.

            Once inside the Desoto, Spike continues his vow of silence and turns on the ignition.  In the first rumblings of the old engine being forced to breathe life again, Buffy looks warily at Spike.  He seems angry and annoyed with her.  For what?  Being sick?  For not calling him after her little, insignificant spell and telling him.  "Honey, great news!  I almost fainted!"

            Two minutes into the drive, Spike has still not spoken and Buffy realizes that they are not heading towards the multiplex.  Nor are they on the way home.  

            "Wait.  Where are we going?"  she asks.  

            There is some movement in his jaw, but none on his lips.

            "Honey, where are we going?"  she asks again, slightly panicked.

            "I'm taking you to hospital,"  he says plainly.

            "What?  No!  Spike, no!"

            "If you're puking up everything you eat and you're getting the dizzies during training, you need a doc to look you over."

            "Spike, I'm not going to the hospital!"

            "Yes, you bloody well are!"  he returns angrily.

            "Don't yell at me!"

            Taking his eyes from the road, he looks over at her and can only shake his head.  "Sweetheart,"  he softens, "I don't mean to be cross, but I'm just concerned, is all.  And you don't seem to be worried at all.  I mean, look at you.  You're exhausted all the time, you can't keep anything down, and you're almost as pale as I am.  Getting woozy while sparring with your Watcher is one thing, but what if it happens while your going head to head with some nasty who could very well take a bite out of Buffy when she's down for the count?"

            She knows he's right.  There's so little time in a Slayer's life for personal concerns, even in matters of health.  When you're trying to save the world, things like a tummy ache and head rushes seem secondary. 

 "I am a little worried,"  she says quietly.  "But not enough to go to the hospital right now.  Please don't take me there, Spike.  I hate that place.  Nothing but bad memories there.  I'll…I'll call my doctor tomorrow."

            "You will?"

            "Yeah, I will.  It's about time for my 3000 mile check-up anyway.  I'll make the appointment first thing in the morning."

            "Right then.   You do that."

            "Let's just go to the movie, OK?  Just sit and watch a flick and forget about all this for a while.  That's what I'm in the mood for."

            "I'll even buy you some of those outrageously expensive chocolate covered peanuts you like.  What are they called?  Goobers?"

Just the thought of chocolate covered anything makes her momentarily queasy.   But she doesn't let on that she is anything but enthusiastic for what he is offering.  "Yum!" she gulps.

            Spike awakes very slowly and rolls his head over to where he customarily finds Buffy's shoulder.  He opens his eyes.  Her pillow is empty.  A quick swipe of his hand across her side tells him she has just vacated the bed; the sheets are still warm.

            He slides his legs onto the floor, finding his jeans in a heap by the nightstand.  He slips them on and pads out into the hallway.  Immediately he sees that the bathroom door is shut.  He listens carefully, hearing nothing inside.  He raps against the wood cautiously with the knuckle of his index finger.

            "Buffy?"

            "Yeah,"  comes the hoarse reply.

            "You sick?"

            "Just a little nauseous.  I'll be all right."

            "You need me to come in?"

            "No."

            "You sure?"

            "Yeah.  I'll be out in a minute."

            "What time is your doctor's appointment?"

            "10:30."

            "You be on time for it, love."

            "I will."

            Buffy sits on the lid of the toilet, staring at the end of the six inch wand she holds in a trembling hand.  A little lavender plus sign deepens in color right before her eyes.   But this can't be right, she keeps telling herself.  These things are only 99% accurate.  There is a margin for error, she assures herself.  Just a small, teensy little margin, but it's there.  Enough to call a presidential election.  Is there a hanging chad that might sway the results in a different direction?

            Or a pregnant one?

            All the signs, all the symptoms, all the sickness…

            She swallows a lump of nausea and lets the wand fall by her side as she presses a damp washcloth to her clammy forehead.  

            "I don't need a doctor to tell me what's wrong,"  she says.           

            "Yep, that's what it is.  You're pregnant,"  Dr. Hemphill says casually as she strolls back into the examining room.

            Buffy can only stare at the prematurely graying thirty-something woman, thinking that she has either walked into the wrong room or that she has been smoking the substance that forms the first syllable of her surname.

            "No," is Buffy's automatic response.  "Are you sure?"

            "I'm 99% sure.  But I'm going to do a sonogram just to rule anything else out."

            There is that percentage again, Buffy thinks.   Is 99% just some agreed upon figure to stand for "you can almost count on it, but wait?"

            "But I just had a period, like, three weeks ago."

            "That was before the baby set up shop,"  Dr. Hemphill says, sitting gingerly on the wheeled stool by the examining table.  "Now he's all moved in and probably thinking about decorating ideas now."  

"You don't understand!"  Buffy says, tears beginning to thicken at the back of her throat.  "My boyfriend is dead!"

"Oh…"  Dr. Hemphill says, surreptitiously tucking Buffy's chart under the sleeve of her arm as though suddenly the results are a tragedy.  "How long has he been gone?"

"120 years,"  Buffy replies absently.

Dr. Hemphill's eyes widen.  "Excuse me?"

"Uh,"  Buffy amends.  "A long time.  Long time."

"And you haven't been sexually active since his death?"

_I only became sexually active with him after his death_.  Buffy is glad for this question because it allows her an opportunity to laugh.  But when she does laugh, her eyes spill over with tears.  Her visible emotions mimic someone in the throes of grief, but she is not anguished.   She doesn't know what she is.  For a fraction of a moment, 99.9% of the moment, she is happy, thinking.  Thinking…

Oh God thinking…

"No,"  Buffy replies finally.  

Dr. Hemphill wraps a comforting arm around Buffy's forearm.  "You want to see your baby?"

Her automatic response is, "Yes."

If there is a little being growing inside of her, she wants to know at least what it looks like, what it is.  Then maybe, if she sees it, she can finally believe it.

Dr. Hemphill squirts a generous amount of clear jelly from a tube onto Buffy's lower abdomen, then guides a T-shaped wand over the area, to the left, to the right, and then…

"There it is,"  Dr. Hemphill says.   

"Where?"  Buffy focuses her eyes on the image right before her on the monitor.  It all looks like white paint swirled into a can of black lacquer.    

Dr. Hemphill uses the tip of her ballpoint to pinpoint the _it_.  "It's as small as the top portion of your thumb, but that's it.  That's your baby."

            Buffy squints, thinking she's already the most inept mother of all time because, try as she might, she just can't see what the woman is showing her.

            But then she thinks she does.

            It's very subtle.  She has to stare at it as though looking deeply at one of those magic eye pictures.

            Something jumps on the screen.  A heartbeat, maybe.  Something.  A little life force she can see but not feel.

            "What is it?"  Buffy asks, transfixed by the fascinating image on the screen.

            "It's a little early to tell the sex just yet.  Maybe by your fourth or fifth visit---

            "No."  Buffy interrupts.  "What is it?"  


	10. Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

            Buffy throws her feet out in front of her as she ascends to even greater heights on her swing.  She is currently having a race with the just-out-of-toddler stage little girl on the swing beside her.  There was no, "betcha I can swing higher than you" challenge.  It just sort of started.  There is something about this little girl.  She seems more independent than the others on the playground, as though her mother, handsome in an oversize chambray shirt and black leggings and sitting on a nearby bench, came along as a companion rather than a supervisor.   The girl's red coat has all but slipped from her arms, the faux-fur trimmed hood flops behind her as she swings, trying to match Buffy's effortless glides towards the heavens.  The little girl has an Eskimo look about her.  Her eyes are small and hidden like two twin cabochons of onyx on either side of her pert little nose.   Her inchworm of a mouth smiles.

            Finally she says, "What's your name?"

            "I'm Buffy,"  the swinging Slayer answers.  "What's yours?"

            "Karen," the little girl replies.  "How old are you?"

            "How old do you think I am?"  Buffy asks teasingly.

            "I don't know.  Are you older than my brother?"

            "How old is your brother?"

            "He's twelve."

            "Oh, yeah.  I'm much, much older than that."

            "Are you sixteen?"

            "Mmm…A little older than that."

            "Twenty?"

            "Add one more year and you've got it."

            The little girl looks thoughtful.  Addition must be new to her.  Buffy imagines that the girl is assembling little blocks in her mind.  Twenty…add one more block and you get…

            "Twenty one!"  the girl says enthusiastically.

            "That's right!"  

            "Is that a kid's age?"

            _It seemed like it…yesterday_, _but not today_.   "No, it's not,"  Buffy says softly.

            "Is that a mommy's age?" the girl asks.

            "Yeah,"  Buffy says,  "It's a mommy's age."

            They continue to swing for a while in silence.  There's not much to be said between a twenty-one year old and a, she's guessing, five year old.  It's not like they can trade opinions about the Enron scandal.  But after a while there is more from the girl.  By this time, another train of thought has Amtrak'ed its way through her brain.

"Mommy and I went to the zoo the other day.  We saw some alligators and some hyenas!"

            "Really?"

            "Um hum.  And there were some snakes too.  I like snakes."

            There are some girlish squeals from the top of the jungle gym just a few feet away.

            "Karen!  Karen!  Come on!"

            The little girl skids her pink Barbie Velcro shoes against the mulch underneath her swing, abruptly ending their contest.  There are no "nice to meet you's" and Buffy understands this.  The child has been called away for better things with kids her own age.  Buffy is a mommy's age.

            _A mommy_.

            Actually, Buffy is grateful that she is allowed to stop swinging, because she is now nauseous from the back and forth movement.  She drags her feet along the mulch under her own swing and lays her head against the cold metal chain.  Her heart is beating rapidly.  She fans her face with her hands, swallowing hard in rapid succession.

            _Oh God, I'm going to puke…Oh God…_

            There is a flash of red before her.  Her eyes catch the flailing of small hands clutching the air.  She jumps from the swing, running in quicksilver speed towards the jungle gym where the little girl has lost her balance and is falling fast towards the hard earth…

            Into Buffy's arms.

            It has happened so quickly; both the little girl and the savior are blinking at each other with incredulity.

            "Oh God!  Karen!"  a woman shrieks.

            Buffy is setting the girl down into the mulch, onto her own two feet, and is putting her hood over her head when Karen's mother meets them.   It's cold today.  The little girl should have something covering her head.

            The mother, still suffering from the late effects of panic, places a hand over her chest.  

            "Karen, are you ok?" the mother assesses her daughter's condition.

            "Yes, Mommy,"  the girl says.  "Buffy caught me."

            The mother looks at Buffy gratefully as she embraces her child.  "You've got some quick reflexes, Buffy,"  she says.  "You'll make a good mother one day."

            "Thank you,"  Buffy replies.  Her eyes are misting as she says, "I really needed to hear that today."

            "Yeah, hello,"  Spike says anxiously into the phone.  "My girlfriend, Buffy Summers, had an appointment at 10:30 this morning at your office and it's 1:30 now and she's still not home.  I'm a bit worried."  At this time, Spike hears a key being inserted into the door lock.  "Nevermind.  She's here."

            He slams the phone into the cradle and stalks over to the door.  Buffy pushes her way in.  She is wearing the camel coat that he often thinks matches her skin tone.  But today, not so much.  She is pale.  She has been pale for the last couple weeks, but today she is…

            Pale as death.

            She lets her keys drop into the bowl beside the door.  She remains fixed there and will not look at him.  

            Spike takes a step forward.  

            She edges away, closer to the door.

            "What did you find out?"  Spike asks warily.

            Buffy bats aimlessly at the top button of her coat before finally unfastening it like a drunk. Spike begins to wonder if the doc loaded her up with some powerful drugs during her office visit.  Some kind of opiate, it seems.

            "Buffy?"  he begs.

            His exclamatory plea catches her attention, finally.  "Hmmm?"  she asks, dragging her heavy-lidded stare to his eye level.    

            "Your appointment!  What did the doc find out?"

            He watches her as she sets her purse down on the table by the door.  She rummages through the contents, discarding a few yellow credit card receipts, a bottle of holy water and a wooden stake as she searches.  At last, she produces a blurry photograph of…something.

            Spike takes it into his hands, trying to decipher the rendering in black and white.    "What's this?"

            Buffy takes a while.  It is still so foreign to her to say, "Our baby" that she has to rehearse in her head how it will sound to him.  She can't say it cynically, because there's no way on God's green earth that something like this could happen between a vampire and a human.  A Slayer, even.   Instant protection, she always thought.  Cold seed.  Dead seed.  She has felt his liquid invasion many times, and it is always as though she is treading a chilly sea.  Never did she imagine that at least one of his swimmers could reach the wall and make her a Mommy.

            "That's it,"  Buffy says, pointing her index finger at the little, peanut-shaped blob of white hinged onto the wall of what Dr. Hemphill said was her womb.  "That's, um, a baby."

            Spike takes the photo, sitting in marionette fashion on the back of the sofa.  This is a…baby?  _His_?   He of the dead body has helped produce…

            Life?

            He clamps a hand to his jaw as he continues to stare at the picture.  _How _seems to be the only word his brain can manage at this point.

"Before you say anything,"  Buffy begins, "I should tell you that a few days before Christmas,  I touched a fertility god.  It was in the Magic Box on the discount table, for Christ's sake, and missing a nipple.  I mean, a nipple!  Giles said that it probably wouldn't work, because once an idol has been injured, it's never the same.  But Giles said that it works by will.  A woman wanting a baby touches the idol to her stomach.  I didn't know Giles meant that touching it to _my_ stomach would mean…you know."

            He looks up at her face, so full of questions, so full of anxiety.  She thinks she has done something.  He thinks he has as well.  

"That same day, I went into Helene's House of Herbs,"  Spike tells her.  "I don't know why.  Well, actually I do.  We had passed all those baby carriages in the mall.  And I saw you wanting one of them, or what was inside of them.   And I saw myself not being able to give you one.  Helene said she would bless us, that she would ask for Gaia's assistance, make an offering to Gaia in our names.  She said that Gaia knows when two of her offspring have enough love in their hearts to bring another life into the world.  I didn't know that asking Helene would…"

            And there is the black and white photo, held between them, in Spike's quivering hand.

            "I guess, in some ways, a small part of us really wanted this,"  Buffy says in a small voice.

            "I…guess,"  Spike says.  He has seen the baby now, obscured in Van Gogh swirls and he thinks, when he looks carefully, he can see an eye staring out at him from the middle of the photo.  There is something he needs to do now; he needs to hear it.

He has that ear.  That well tuned, vampiric ear.  He lowers his face to her abdomen.  After pushing up her shirt, he listens.

            "Oh God…"  he intones against her.

            "What?"  she gulps.

            "The other night.  I thought I was hearing another heartbeat.  But now…"

            "Yes?"

            He places his cheek flat against her belly so that his ear is suctioning up all the sounds from within.  Then he crumbles.  His cold tears glide down her bare stomach, pooling in her navel.

            She holds him close to her, trying to soothe his tremors.  "Sweetheart, I know you're upset and I was too.  I mean, complete shock of it all alone almost sent me into cardiac arrest right there on the examining table.  But we're going to get through this.  I just need you to be OK with this.  I need you..."  Buffy is startled now to hear a burst of steady laughter against her belly.  "Spike?"

            He lifts his completed elated face to hers, tears streaming down his face like the spent wax from a candle glowing from inside of him  "You're going to make me a Daddy!  You're going to make _me_ a Daddy!"

            "You're…happy about this?"  she asks.

            "What, that the woman I love is carrying my child?"  He brings his arms around her backside, hoisting her into the air, sending her legs wheeling in space.  "Oh, Pet, you've just about made me the happiest man who ever died!"  He plasters her stomach with kisses.  Suddenly, just this one bare patch of flesh isn't enough.  He wants to feel all of her.  He wants to thread the bobbin of her silky  body through his fingers and create a tapestry of her for him to wrap himself in for all eternity.  Buffy encircles her lover's waist with her legs as they lumber in one combined form to the bedroom.  Once on the bed, Spike's hands are everywhere, simultaneously slipping off her shirt, her bra, all things that keep him away from every inch of her skin.  His kisses are constant and breath taking.  She relishes his lips on hers, but craves the air.  

She begs for and gets a few minutes of quality oxygen time by asking him,  "I was so worried that you would think I had cheated on you.  That you would leave me."

"That was your hormones kicking in, sweetheart.  I know you'd never stray.  What, did you think I would assume that you were boinking the barkeep?  Hardly.  You should know me better than that, love."

            I should, Buffy thinks as she draws him closer.  This is her man, her one and only.  As Spike immerses himself in the warmth of her skin once again, she sees his dazzled expression, as though he's being allowed to dance in the afternoon rays of the off-limits sun.  He loves her so much.  Sometimes when her hand roams the muscular planes of his cold body, she has to constantly remind herself that he is dead; he is a cold, dead thing.  A creature of darkness, a being who requires daily gulps of blood to exist.  But then he looks at her; his eyes shimmer with that inner light that she can almost call his soul.  She has realized for some time now that what she is seeing is her own soul reflected in those ice blue eyes.  The first night they made love he removed most of the doubt that the thing he had for her was real.  Every day they are together, he strips away whatever remaining qualm she might have about his true nature.  There are other times when she is touching him that she thinks she is molding the clay of him into something human.  Humans replicate themselves in their young.   Under the tutelage of her hands, has he become a living being again?  She shrinks away from the notion that she has such power.  She creates death, nothing more.  But somehow, the two of them, in their twin negatives, have joined together to make a child.  _A child_!    The plus signs she saw this morning still dance around the room as though some Crayola happy math teacher is sketching freehand wallpaper.  

She places her thumbs in the hollows under his high cheekbones and kisses him, whispering against his lips, "You are the one true love of my life."

"And you are mine,"  he answers.

Hours later, after Buffy has been helped into happiness, Spike is lying with his head on Buffy's stomach.

"I love you,"  Buffy hears him say.

            "I love you too,"  she says, combing her fingers through his hair.  

            "I'm talking to the little one here,"  Spike says, kissing her just above her bellybutton.

            Buffy giggles as she feels the assault of Spike's soft kisses against her stomach.  "If you keep doing that, I'm going to get chapped abs!"

            "We'll get you some Vaseline, then,"  he answers, continuing to kiss her, "because I'm not going to stop until he's born!"

            Finally he's had enough and returns to his side of the bed, nestling his head in his pillow.  She has never seen such a smile on his face.  He is so full of love that if pricked, he'd bleed valentines.  

            "This is so amazing,"  he says through a sigh.  "I never thought…I never even dreamed that something like this could happen to me."

            "Well, guess what?  It's happening."

            "I know."  He reaches over for the watch dangling around Buffy's neck.  "Of course,  you'll have to give this up when he's born."

            "Aw!"  she pouts.  

            "Well, maybe not right away.  When he's older and can actually tell time."

            "Then we can tell him about the wonderful night you gave it to me."

            "And he can gag and make faces and say, 'So you've always been gooey and romantic.'"

            "They say that the romance ends when baby makes three."

            "Then we'll have to spend every day after he's born proving them wrong, love."

            He pulls her into his arms, kissing her lightly on the forehead.  Settling into his embrace, Buffy asks, "So who are we going to tell first?"

            "Mmm…I think the first person we should tell is coming down the hall and is about to open the front door right about now."

            Buffy hears that a new presence invading their quiet in the form of a jingle of keys being placed on the table inside the door.  She hears footsteps on the floor leading to the kitchen.

            The bedroom door is open.

            Buffy grabs for anything that will cover her, in this case her pink robe that she knows will signal to Dawn like an unfurled tongue, "I've just been having sex."

            But by now, Dawn is so accustomed to the sight of her sister's flushed, post-coital cheeks, she is not even embarrassed anymore.  She sees Buffy readying herself for public viewing, cinching her robe around her with a slim sliver of her naked breast still exposed and thinks, "Why bother?"  

            "Hey Dawnie,"  Buffy says, smoothing back her hair.

            "Hey Buffy,"  Dawn says, heading straight for the kitchen, sustaining a bemused smile of her face.

            Buffy scampers behind her sister.  "Umm…how was your day?"

            "Good,"  Dawn replies at the open door of the fridge.  She selects a Diet Coke and depresses the tab.  "And yours?"  she asks, taking a sip.

            Not as productive as a couple months ago, Buffy is prepared to say.  She holds back and substitutes with, "Very good.  But Dawn…there's something Spike and I have to tell you."

            "OK,"  Dawn says.  "Where's Spike?"

            "I'm here,"  Spike mumbles, fastening the last button of his jeans as he's entering the room.

            Dawn looks at them carefully, a haughty curl to her lips.  "So what's going on?"

            "Um…something has happened.  Something we didn't plan on,"  Buffy begins.

            "What?  You're pregnant?"  Dawn asks, sending her eyes rolling.

             "Well, actually, yes."

            Dawn's eyes fly open wide.  Her eyes dart to Spike and then to Buffy, back to Spike, and again to Buffy.  "But wait a minute.  You can't---

            "But I am,"  Buffy finishes.

            Dawn focuses on Spike.  "But _you_ can't---

"But I did,"  Spike answers proudly.

She continues to stare at both of them.  The moment of excruciatingly uncomfortable silence is followed by a burst of unbridled laughter from Dawn.  She shakes her head and takes her leave, heading for the living room.  "And they said irony was dead."

Buffy and Spike exchange glances before following Dawn's path.  They find her collapsed in the armchair, hugging her stomach in a fit of giggles.

"Dawn, we're serious,"  Buffy says.  "This isn't a joke."

"Oh, I know!"  she says, wiping her eyes.  "I just think it's kind of funny.  I mean, you are always telling me to use a condom, use a condom.  And now.  Oops!  Anyways, I don't know why you guys were all hand-wringy about telling me.  I'm the easy one.  You still have to tell Giles, right?"

             Buffy and Spike both look at each other, a mutual feeling of dread manifesting itself in a single thought:  _He won't take this well_.  

            That night at the Magic Box, long after the last customer has waltzed across the threshold with whatever Anya was able to persuade them to buy, a tense and silent trio sits at the round table under a single burning lamp.

            Buffy and Spike sit on one side of the table, Giles on the other.  Contemplatively, Giles is twisting his thumb and index finger in front of his pursed lips.  Buffy has seen this look before.  One morning, Giles showed up at her apartment unannounced before she had a chance to make up her bed.  She remembers his stare as he focused on the two pillows, both creased with the impressions of their occupants' heads.  

            On his face he wears the look of fatherly disappointment and a learned man's befuddlement.  

            Finally Giles clears his throat.  "I suppose this is the clichéd response when one hears news such as this, but in this case I think it's warranted:  _How_?"

            "Let's just say that Spike and I haven't been extremely careful,"  Buffy replies.  "Anyway, we were kind of hoping you could help us with the how part."  Or the _why_, she adds to herself.  

            Giles observes Buffy continuously curling her slim fingers around Spike's hand, kneading the flesh over and over and he is returning the massage, roughly combing through her digits.   Any other pair would be yelping from the pain of such a clutch, but they are fine.  It appears that this touch is keeping them anchored to where they are.

            "Well, expectant Slayers are not entirely unheard of in the annals of history, particularly in the middle ages when the average life expectancy of women was considerably shorter than today's.   Even in more modern times, there are a few instances in which Slayers have become mothers, most recently in 1927, when a young girl only referred to as Josephine in her Watcher's journals gave birth to a baby boy which she turned over to an orphanage in New York.  Some of my cohorts did some research on that and it turns out, the boy was adopted by a moneyed couple and went onto great prominence."

            "But what about Slayers getting duffed by vampires?"  Spike asks impatiently.

            "There's not a single case of that."  Giles responds.

"Oh, I get it.  Because I'm the first Slayer who's ever bedded one, right?"  Buffy asks indignantly.

"No, because vampires cannot father offspring."

"Giles!"  Buffy says, gesturing wildly at herself and the vampire beside her.  "Us!  Here!  Telling you that, yes, it is possible because it has happened.  Haven't you been listening?"

"Are you trying to tell us that I'm not the father of this child?"  Spike asks.

The look on Giles' face answers in the affirmative.

"Oh, bloody hell!"  Spike yowls, rising from the table and slamming his hand on the back of his chair, sending it crashing against the table.  "I should have known you'd be like this.   First Spike's not good enough to be with your sweet little Buffy, now he doesn't have the proper jizz to put a sprog in her."

"Spike, stop…"  Buffy mutters, suddenly not able to look at anyone.

 But he continues his tirade.  "I have sat here countless times before, listening to you prattle on about demon this, demon that and 'my sources say that blah blah blah prophecy predicts blah blah blah apocolypse so cancel your bridge parties and canasta tournaments.  We've got a fight on our hands!'"  Spike shakes his head, slamming his fist into a row of neatly arranged books, making it appear that the bookshelf has lost some of its teeth.  "But Spike's a monster, a bloody fiend!  One of these days I half expect to walk in here and find you all nattering on about ways you're going to defeat _me_!"

"Spike, this has nothing to do with anyone's opinion of who you are and everything to do with what you are!"  Giles shouts above the din.  

Spike swivels about, his shoulders arched as though he's about to fling himself into battle.  His fists clench and unclench at his side.  His brow is lowered over the fierceness of his deep blue stare.

"Spike, please!  Sit down!"  Buffy urges.

Corralled by the sound of Buffy's pleading voice, he grabs the back of his chair and puts it to rights again before taking his seat, his body forming agitated angles as he crosses one leg over the knee of the other and folds his arms.  

As the heat of the emergency settles, Giles speaks again:  "Spike, you have proven yourself time and time again to be quite useful to our cause and I don't intend to imply anything untoward about your character, as it is now.  It is obvious that you have come a long way since you first arrived on the scene and,"  he lowers his eyes before uttering softly, "that you care for Buffy a great deal."

Spike feels a slight twinge at the back of his throat at this admission.  He allows his body to relax as he reaches for Buffy's hand, tightening his fingers around her returning grip.

"But even so,"  Giles continues, "You are, for all purposes, a dead man.  And it is not physically possible for you to create a child, even with someone you love."

All of a sudden, their sweet afternoon curled in each other's arms is fogged by a settling, uncomfortable truth.   What was romantic and full of possibilities now seems implausible and utterly hopeless.  Prayers to Gaia and wishes on nippleless fertility goddesses on Christmas Clearance, all stuff of urban legends like sharing toothbrushes or using public toilets.

"So you're saying that this could all be something mystical.  Something from the cosmos,"  Buffy ventures out of the mist of her own thoughts.  She can't bear to look at Spike all the way.  She caught one glimpse of the hurt piercing his eyes and couldn't look any further.

"It could be,"  Giles responds.

Buffy is still not willing to accept this.  "But a couple months ago when we came to you about the dream Spike and I had.  You said that there were no apocalypses on the horizon, for once, and that we were just being overly anxious about our future together."

"And that was true.  Then."  He answers sullenly.

"But you think now that this baby could be a sign of… something.  Don't you?"

"Possibly,"  he returns slowly.

Thickening shadows of trepidation are enveloping her, sweeping whatever smile she has worn that day, or any smiles to come, into the dustbin that it always her reality.  She should always know not to think too positively or dream too large.   She is the Slayer, after all.  She is as indigenous to sacrifice as forests are to the Northwest.    

"So,"  she says, sucking back encroaching tears, "Another apocalypse.  Oh, well.  It's not like we haven't seen one of those before.  So we find out who or what it is causing it and defeat it.  Same old same old."  Buffy instinctively runs a hand over her stomach.  There's no swelling there yet.  Her little one is still inconspicuous, a Spartan dweller inside of her, taking up only the barest of space. 

Spike aims a flat gaze at the Watcher who is not only at a loss for words, but seemingly lost as well, and says, "You think that just because you've spent a lifetime mucking about your dusty books and staring down the forces of evil through your tortoise shell specs, that makes you a knowledgeable man.  Well, here's this, Rupert.  I put my evil, demonized ear to this lovely lady's belly today and I heard a heartbeat.  Sometimes it was so fast it was as hard to catch as the wind, but I heard it.  Over and over.  And I knew as I listened.  I knew with all my being, dead or not, that this child is mine.  You don't have to go digging out _Gray's Anatomy_ and size me up against a picture of a cadaver and say A=B.  And you can sit there and go on about what I can and cannot do, but I know--- I know!"  His hand now joins Buffy's over her stomach.  When he speaks again, his voice is tightened with feeling.  "This child is a sign of something.  It's a sign to everyone who doesn't believe we love each other that we really and truly do."  

Giles looks at the pair before him and he does want to be wrong.  So help him God, he wants to be wrong.  And he wants to take back everything he has said by putting a smiley face sticker on it all and telling them that everything will be great.  Buffy once begged him to lie to her, he remembers, after she had to go through the unenviable task of staking an old friend.  Buffy knows what harsh truth is.  She has seen it clawing out of its grave.  

This is a different Buffy now.  An adult.  An expectant mother.  A Buffy who has looked long and hard into the darkness that is her work and has still emerged…a girl.  A sweet girl, unspoiled by what she has experienced.  He thinks sometimes that he has betrayed his birthright by getting too close to her, in turn making her not the fierce warrior he has read about.  But then she'll go and stake a vamp as though swatting a fly, behead a Le'acht demon as though cutting through butter, shelve her youth in favor of saving the world…

He watches Spike rub his knuckles over Buffy's trembling forearm.  He hears him murmuring encouragements into her ear, sifting her golden hair through his hands and placing kisses on her forehead.   "It'll be all right, sweetheart,"  he says.  "It'll be all right."

"It will be all right,"  Giles concurs out of the obligation of his heart, now completely unstrung.  "I'll do a bit more research.   This could be something…else.  I don't know what, but…"   Buffy looks at him with new hope shining through the standing water in her eyes and he is more determined than ever.  "I shall look more deeply into this."

  
  



	11. Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

            Dr. Hemphill told Buffy that she might do certain things on impulse during her pregnancy, and Buffy has warned her housemates about this.  But nothing at all could prepare Spike and Dawn for what she does at the beginning of March.

            She has been out all afternoon and Dawn and Spike were beginning to ask themselves where the hell she was.  But when they see her, they know.  And it's so shocking to them that for many minutes they can't say a single thing.

            "Do you like it?"  she asks, hopefully.

            "It's all gone!"  Dawn says, putting a hand to the up-turned locks of hair an inch over her sister's shoulders.         

            "It's different,"  Spike says.  _Her golden hair…_

"But do you like it?"  she asks.

            "It's all gone!"  Dawn says again

            "It's not all gone.  It's not like I went out and got a Jean Luc Picard special,"  Buffy says.  But she sees Spike and Dawn's disapproval.  This was a mistake.  Oh God…what was she thinking?  "You hate it."

            "No,"  Spike says.  "It will just take some getting used to."

            And still, all Dawn can say is, "It's all gone!"

            Spike elbows Dawn.  "You still look beautiful,"  Spike offers.

            "No I don't!  Not only am I getting fat…now I'm ugly too!"

            Buffy and Dawn watch her, helplessly, as she disappears into a fit of tears into her room.  They hear her crying.  They hear her realizing what she has done.  And it wasn't a bad move, as impetuous as it was.  She is still lovely Buffy, if somewhat shorn.

            Spike tries the door.  "Buffy?"

            "Go away!" she says with a sob.

            "Sweetheart, you know I can break this door down."

            "And you know I can stake you!  Go away!"

            Spike backs away from the door as though his fingertips are about to caress fire.

            "She's lost her mind,"  Dawn says.

            "No, she's just exercising her right to be hormonal,"  Spike says.

            "How long do you think this will last?"

            Spike shrugs.  "It's anyone's guess."  _Her golden hair_…

            "I remember when she used to get mad at me for borrowing her stuff.  Mom always intervened, because if she didn't, Buffy would just stay mad at me for, like weeks.  This one time, Buffy accused me of having her blue sweater.  God, she basically tore me a new one over that.  I didn't even have the damn thing!"

            Spike remembers the sweater, stretched over the mannequin torso in his crypt and then over Harmony's more ample form.  He remembers touching the fibers, smelling her scent.   Overwhelming.  And now, her crying behind the door.  More potent than the scent, more hurtful than her cold stare when he bound he in chains and begged her to love him.

            "So, what are we going to do?  Just wait it out?"  Dawn asks.

            "I don't know.  I'll think of something."

            "Eee…eee…eee?"

            Spike snorts.  "I think if I tried to get near her at this point, I'd be the one shouting eee…eee…eee and not in a good way."

            Anya flits around the Magic Box with a feather duster in hand.  It's three o'clock in the afternoon, the slow time for the shop.  Actually, the whole day has been a slow time.  She has helped three customers, two of which were bald men looking for herbal treatments for hair loss.  She couldn't help them in that area, but was able to direct them to the pharmacy across the street to buy some Rogaine, on sale for $11.99.

            Giles has been pouring over volume after volume of ancient text for the better part of the day.  For the past few weeks, he has been dedicated to his research, completely neglecting his customer service duties in favor of note-taking and fact checking.  This work is something Anya has not been privy too.  Whenever she asks what he's working on, his reply is always vague.  "Oh, the usual.  Demons and such.  We are living on a Hellmouth, you know."  She senses his annoyance whenever her time to lean, time to clean busy work encroaches on his research.  He always slams his book shut and walks over to the tea kettle to refill his cup.  His tea intake in the past weeks has increased to ten cuppas a day, way beyond the Englishman's standard per diem of three.   Most days he arrives looking worn and haggard, as though he has slept in his clothes or hasn't slept at all.  She figures he needs the extra caffeine to keep him going.

            Anya turns up the volume on the radio.  Only one more hour until "All Things Considered" on National Public Radio.  Noah Adams is promising an informative and heart-warming story on an Appalachian family marketing an apple butter that has caught on nationally.

            Yes, indeed.  It's a slow day.

            Anya drifts over to the section of books least perused by the public.  These are the more advanced spell books, the ones with the big words that Wiccans may buy just for the street cred, but never actually use.

            "Is Buffy coming in today?"  Anya asks.

            "No,"  Giles says, still scribbling at the table.  

            "Strange,"  Anya says.  "She hasn't been here for weeks."

            "Anya, I told you, she has been ill."  Once again he remembers Buffy's pleading eyes.  "Let's this be our secret for a while.  Until we find out what this is we're dealing with,"  she asked him.  He nods again to her in his head.

            "She's been sick for a while.  What is it?  Fever again?"

            "No."

            "Influenza?"

"No, not the flu."

"Small pox?  Oooh!  I've heard that's making a comeback.  You know, that used to wipe out entire villages when I was a Vengeance Demon.  A lot of times, I'd be summoned to exact revenge on someone only to find him stone cold dead in his house and supper still on the table.  I got a lot of free meals that way."

            "It's not smallpox,"  Giles replies.     

"Most of the time, it was terrible food.  Cold English food was the worst.  The stuff they put into pies and call a meal."  Anya shudders at the memory.  

            "Anya, please,"  Giles begs, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.  

            "Oh, I'm sorry.  Of course.  Bad memories of yucky food.  Good thing you're in the United States of America now where food is actually edible, if somewhat artery clogging and genetically altered."  Anya moves her duster over the figurines gathered in a haphazard display between the spellbooks and the encyclopedias of demonology.  "Has Buffy been to a doctor?"  Anya asks.

            "Yes, she has."

            "And what did the doctor say?"

            Something I'm not permitted to tell you just now, Giles answers in his head.  "That she needs to rest,"  he tells her.

            "She has seemed a little tense lately.  Maybe she just needs to have her clit licked."

            Giles slams a hand down on his books.  "Anya!"

            "A very viable cure and a very pleasurable one as well.  I know after I've had a bad week, a good clit lick is all I need to put me back on my feet."

            "And I would kill for a blowjob after working an eight hour day with you, but this is not the time or place to discuss such matters!"  Giles explodes.  And even as he hears himself utter the word _blowjob_, he still can't believe that he was angry enough to say it.  

            "Oh, a blowjob!  Have you considered hiring one of those women who work by the shipyards?  Some of them are actually attractive and they need the money, judging by the way they dress."

            "Anya, as much as I'd love to sit here and talk about the finer points of oral gratification and prostitution, I do have work to do.  So if you could just go about what you're doing, I shall continue bandying about my books.  All right?"

            "Fine,"  Anya says, continuing to dust.  "But just for the record, this has been the most enlightening conversation we've ever had."

            "Well, I'm glad something good came out of my elevated blood pressure and total embarrassment."

            Later that evening, Buffy is lying on her bed, her face pressed deep into her pillow as she listens to David Gray's _Babylon_, played low on her stereo.  She hears a knock at the door and instinctively mutters, "Go away!" once again.

            She hears the knock again and sits up against the headboard.  "I mean it!  Go away!"

            "Oh, but please, Goldilocks!"  Spike says in a cartoonish voice on the other side of the door.

            "Spike, I don't---

            "Not Spike.  Baaaybeee Bear."

"OK, Baaaybeee Bear.  Leave me alone!"

 "Take pity, Goldilocks.  Someone has eaten all my porridge and I'm oh so hungry!  And some sod has sat in my chair and it's all broken to bits! And now someone is sleeping in my bed and she's still there!"

            Buffy allows a smile to slip onto her face.  

"Come in, Baby Bear,"  she says, feeling like a trucker talking over a CB radio.

            The door opens, just a sliver.  A furry paw wedges its way into the small space.  She watches as an oversized teddy bear struts into the room, her puppeteer of a lover maneuvering the bear's limbs to simulate walking.  

            She has to genuinely laugh at the spectacle before her, because it's just so silly and so…Spike.  The things he will do to say he's sorry.  Sometimes she just wants to tell him to stop acting like one of Glory's toadying minions.  He has her now.  They're expecting a baby together, for God's sake.  

            The bear hops up onto the bed, rubbing Buffy's cheek with his paw.  "Goldilocks, why are you sleeping in my bed?"  The "bear" asks.

            "Because it's comfy and warm and it's away from things,"  she says.

            "Na uh uh,"  the "bear" scolds, tickling her nose with the tip of his paw.   "What does Goldilocks say?"

            She strokes a loving hand over the face of the bear.            "Because it's just right,"  she replies, embracing both Baby Bear and Big Bad, encircling her arms around the fractured fairy tale that is her life.

            Spike leaps over her, landing squarely on his side of the bed, teddy bear still in hand.    Buffy possessively acquires the stuffed toy, bouncing it on her lap. 

            "Is this for me or for the baby?"  she asks.

            "All for you, sweetheart,"  he says, kissing her cheek and pulling her towards him.  

            "So there are some things I don't have to give up because of the baby?"

            "There are some things,"  Spike answers.  He scoots an inquisitive hand through her shortened hair, still loving the texture, the scent.  It's all there, just abbreviated.  

            They kiss for a long time, their mouths so fascinated by the brush of lips and tongues, time goes by and clothes are tossed. 

 Down to skivvies, Buffy finally thinks to ask, "Where is Dawn?"

            "At the library,"  Spike murmurs over her lips.

            "God bless the Dewy Decimal system,"  Buffy says blissfully.

            And the dead man spends the rest of the evening buried in the once and future love of his life.

            Dr. Hemphill emerges from Buffy's elevated thighs, sloughing off her latex gloves and tossing them into the nearby trash bin.  "OK.  You can close up shop now.  I'm done."

            Buffy sits up anxiously, removing her feet from the stirrups and sliding her legs over the side of the examination table.

            "Is everything OK?"  she asks.

            "Yep.  You're doing very well.  You may not feel like it now, but your pregnancy is completely normal.  How's the morning sickness?"

            "Still with me."

            "The saltines and ginger ale aren't working out?"

            "Yeah, they're working out.  Usually into the trashcan or the commode if I can make it."

            "That's rough, I know.  With my first pregnancy, I felt like I was constantly in that space simulator NASA calls the Vomit Comet.  Anyway, the first trimester doesn't last forever.  But if you can't keep anything down at all, I can give you some medication for the nausea, especially if you're getting dehydrated."

            "That's good to know."

            After hearing this good report, Buffy is still concerned.  There is something she needs to tell her doctor, but something she feels she cannot verbalize.  How does one go about asking, "Is my baby evil?  Will my baby signal the end of the world?  Are there meds for that?"

            Dr. Hemphill must recognize Buffy's consternation because now she is soothing a hand down Buffy's forearm.

            "Buffy, is there something wrong?"  she asks.

            "No.  Just first time pregnancy jitters,"  Buffy answers with a brave face.  

            "I remember what you told me.  About the father… not being around."

            "Are you kidding?  He's around me all the time!  He can't keep his hands off me most days," Buffy says with a laugh.

Dr. Hemphill's shoulders sag in confusion.  "But you told me the baby's father was dead."

She did tell Dr. Hemphill that the father was dead.  And he _is._

"Oh!  Well…what I meant was that the father was dead to _me_.  We were having a fight, but the baby kinda brought us back together."

            "Well, that's good.   And he's ready to be a parent?"

            More ready than I am, Buffy thinks.  "Yeah.  He's very supportive.  But what I was wondering, um, about the baby.  Is it normal?"

            Dr. Hemphill shrinks back from Buffy's query.  "As normal as we can tell at this stage.  Are there certain genetic strains in your family that you're worried about?"

            "Well, no.  It's just that…"  The father _is _dead.  She has only known about the existence of a fetal heartbeat through her lover's ear.  Would he lie?  No.  No!  No?  "Does the baby have a heartbeat?"

            "Yes.  Very strong and very fast."

            "And a soul?"

            "Well, of course.  We're all born with souls.  Some people just forget they have them."  

            "Some people lose their souls,"  Buffy says in a faraway whisper.  "But they get them back."

            "Yeah, when they're descending into hell and they're not the martyrs some guy living in a cave promised they would be,"  Dr. Hemphill laughs.  "But anyway, it's not my business to pass judgment on some terrorists gunning for approval by their god.  All I can say is, yes, your baby has a heartbeat and a soul and you're a strong and healthy young woman.  At this point, there is not reason why you shouldn't be able to deliver a perfectly normal child."

            "There's no reason why you shouldn't be able to deliver a perfectly normal child,"  Giles says, ragged and bed-headed, the hush puppy rings under his eyes nearly looping towards the lines around his mouth.

            "Are you sure?  I mean, you've read everything?"  Buffy asks.

"I've read everything from the original Watcher's journal, in Arabic, by the way, to the latest issue of _Parents_ Magazine."  Giles removes his glasses and massages his throbbing temples.  "There is nothing to indicate anything is imminent except for the birth of your baby."

Buffy and Spike cheer silently, exhaling breaths and clutching hands.  

"So this is a miracle?"  Buffy asks.

"It appears so,"  Giles says.  Even in the aftermath of his immersion in every text ever written about enceinte Slayers and end of the world prophecies, he still cannot believe that the very alive girl and the very dead man beside her are going to have a child together.  

"Ha ha!"  Spike declares elatedly.  "Uncap your Mont Blanc and turn a fresh page in your journal, Rupert."  He cups Buffy's jaw in his hand and strokes her cheek. "Buffy and I are writing a new chapter in Slayer lore.  I came to Sunnydale to sire the Slayer.  And she sired me instead."

"Oh, honey!"  she says, her eyes spilling over with tears, hearing the bizarre Hallmark greeting of his words.  "You know how I get these days!"

Giles wants to turn away from their passionate embrace, but he can't.  He has to see how much they love each other, how much they want this child.  As much as he has been defying Spike as a suitable suitor for his charge, he knows, in some ways, he is the person she needs.  Just enough of her own darkness tempered with humanity.  The way they smile and the way they blend together, like two halves of a gloomy heart becoming one.  They are love.  They are worked for, killed for, bled for love.  And sometimes when he looks at them he can only shake his head and wonder, but lately he's been thinking more positive things, such as, "This is right.  They are good together.  They will have this child and will be a family and their happiness will be complete."

But he can't let them off without a warning.  There is the rejoinder that he is finding hard to voice in the display of their togetherness, but he thinks that they know, deep in their love-laden hearts.

"Buffy," he says gravely,  "just because there is no precedence doesn't mean that...What I mean is, the child might be---

"Giles, stop, OK?"  Buffy begs.  "This baby is human.  Heart and soul.  I can sense when things are evil.  I feel it in my gut.  And this child inside of me is not evil.  I feel like I've been given a wonderful gift, something that I'm not supposed to have."  She lowers her eyes and as she does, she sees the tears shimmering in the lower rims of her eyelids.  When she lifts her head again, a droplet falls, slipping down her cheek and landing with a splat on her sweater.  "This is what I want."  She says soulfully as she holds Spike fast, his blond head finding a comforting rest on her left shoulder.  "I just turned twenty-one.  I'm young, I know.  But for a Slayer…I mean, the clock is ticking.  There might not be a time in the future for this.  It's happening now because, obviously, something or someone has chosen this to be the right time.  And, honest to God, I've never been happier."

And Giles knows that what's she's saying is true.  He only hopes that it will stay true.

Dawn flips open her laptop computer and switches it on.  She sips at her Diet Coke as she waits out the one or two minutes it takes before she is able to click on the Internet Explorer button and log on.

Almost immediately after her Yahoo Messenger window appears, she is slammed with an IM from Travis.

t-dawg:  Hey sweetie!

iamthekey:  Hey baby!

t-dawg:  Whatcha doing?

iamthekey:  Just watching Spike and Buffy canoodle on the sofa.  They're watching Entertainment Tonight, but they keep talking to each other in this should-be-outlawed baby talk.  lol

t-dawg:  lmao

iamthekey:  But I'm really weirded out now.  And not just because of what I'm watching.

t-dawg:  Oh?  What's wrong?

iamthekey:  Nothing's wrong.  At least not yet. 

t-dawg:  Dawn, you're scaring me.  What's up?

iamthekey:  Well, I guess it's safe to tell you now.  Everyone else knows.

iamthekey:  Buffy is pregnant  :O

The cursor blinks on the IM so long that Dawn begins to think that Travis has been booted.

iamthekey:  Travis, are you there?

t-dawg:  Yeah, I'm here.

iamthekey:  Where'd you go?

t-dawg:  Nowhere.  

iamthekey:  I can't believe my sister is going to have a baby.  That's just too fucked up, you know?  I'm being aunted and I'm not even sixteen years old!

t-dawg:  lol

iamthekey:  And she's so insanely happy about it.  It's like having a different sister.  She was literally going around the house singing like she was in a musical or something.  Way scary.

t-dawg:  lol.  Listen, I'd better go.  I still have to read that chapter Mr. Morin assigned.

iamthekey:  Yeah, me too.  Expect a quiz on the New Deal.

t-dawg:  lol

iamthekey:  I'll talk to you tomorrow.

t-dawg:  OK, Dawn.  

iamthekey:  *hugs*

t-dawg:  *hugs*

Travis sits for many minutes, his Yahoo Messenger window still on his computer screen, an IM from Eric Daniels displayed, awaiting a response.  "Hey, T-Dawg!  Wassup?"   He scrolls down, putting himself on invis and leans back heavily on the back of his chair as he sips at his Coke.

His mother barges into the room, uninvited, as she always does.  

"What are you doing?"  she asks, emptying his wastepaper basket for about the seventh time this day.  "And Travis?  A coaster?"  she urges, noting the sweating Coke can on Travis' desk.

"Oh, sorry,"  Travis apologizes as he places his Coke on his mousepad.  "I was just talking to Dawn."

Samantha Singleton nods as she scrapes out the torn scraps of paper from Travis's trashcan.  She suddenly takes interest in a jagged piece of paper that she's about to be pickup for the garbage man.  "What's this?"  She begins to eagerly dig through what she has just dispensed into the garbage bag.  When fitted together, the pieces form a letter from Harvard, begging for a campus visit.  "Why didn't you show this to us?"  she finally manages after reading the letter.

Because I knew it would mean another fight, Travis thinks.  "It was addressed to me,"  Travis tells his mother.

"But, Travis!  Harvard wants to you come for a visit!  That's your dream!  And here you are literally just throwing it away!"

"No, Mom, that's your dream.  Have you ever, even once, heard me say anything about wanting to go to Harvard?"

"Travis, when a school like Harvard seeks you out, you don't run and hide.  Do you know how rare it is to get a letter like this?  At your age?"

"Mom, here's the thing.  I just got into high school.  College is the last thing on my mind."

"Well, it shouldn't be.  Honestly, I don't know where your mind is these days."  She crosses her arms as an evil gleam lights her gray eyes.  "Actually, I do know where your mind is.  It's on that silly little tramp of a girl."

"She's not a tramp, Mom."

"How could she not be?  Living the way she does under the example of her sister who whores herself out to vampires."

"Mom, stop it!"

"The three of them living together under one roof in that house of sin and filth.   I would pray for their souls, but one of them doesn't have one.  Are those really the kind of people you want to be associated with?"

Suddenly a bell sounds from Travis' computer and an IM appears on the screen.  It's from Dawn.  He finds his hands paralyzed as his eyes freeze on the screen and he realizes his mother is reading right along with him.

 iamthekey:  I know you're offline, but Spike and Buffy are now not only doing the baby talk thing, they're also talking baby names.  Spike actually wants to name the baby Hogan Verizon!  lmao!

Recovering his manual dexterity, Travis quickly exits out of the window.  His hand slips away slowly from the mouse, streaking the top with a smear of sweat.  He cannot look at his mother's face.  He is too afraid of what he will find there.

"The Slayer is pregnant?"  Mrs. Singleton says slowly.  

"Uh, actually, no---

"Wait, wait, wait…The Slayer is _pregnant_?"

A blush reddens Travis' complexion and he aims his stare at his shoes.  He feels his heart sink to his waist and sickness seizes his stomach.

"Travis, if the Slayer is pregnant…Travis, do you know what this means?  Do you have any idea what this means to us?  To all of us?  It means were all _saved_!"  His mother slams her hands together in a thunderous clap of victory.  "'The Slayer and a demon shall combine and raise for you a savior.'  As many times as I have read that and heard it from the pulpit, it all just seemed like some distant dream.  But it's happening!  It's finally happening!"  She rakes her long, lithe through her sons unruly hair before giving his shoulders a rough massage.  "Oh, Travis!  This is wonderful!  We don't have to die!  None of us has to die!"

For a sliver of a second, with his mothers hands kneading the skin over his tense shoulders, Travis wishes he were dead.  He wishes he didn't have to hear the cheer in his mother's voice over the vileness of the events that have been set in motion with the announcement of the Slayer's child.  He imagines across town, Buffy and Spike are curled up on the couch, running through a list of names in their head for their precious dream child.  He can almost see the wide grins on their faces and the playful slaps they give each other as names are spoken aloud and soundly rejected.  Little Joshua.  Little Ben.  Little Sally.  Little Lucy.  Little Suzie.  Little doomed baby who doesn't have a chance and doesn't have a clue what's awaiting him when he is plucked from his mother's womb…

"Oh, who should I tell first?"  Travis's mother ponders as she drifts in a reverie towards the door, hands clasped, eyes skyward.  "Reverend Estey, certainly.  Stanley.  Mr. Chapman.   Phyllis.  No, not Phyllis.  She won the blue at the last garden club for that awful arrangement of eucalyptus and iris.  She can wait.  Oh, Lord!  I feel like a million pound weight has been lifted from my shoulders!"

Even after his mother leaves him, Travis still feels the blood on her hands seeping through the fabric of his shirt, cooling his skin.  And he knows that if he looks close enough, he can see that his own hands are glazed with blood as well.

"Mom, isn't there some other way?"  he asks quietly.

"His mother blinks back at him, incredulity clouding her features.  "Travis, don't you think that if there were some other way…?  We don't…none of us wants…"  Samantha Singleton purses her lips and finally says, "'The Slayer and a demon shall combine and raise for you a savior.'"


	12. Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

            In the middle of her fourth month of pregnancy, Buffy rediscovers her appetite.  Unfortunately for Spike, this occurs most often in the middle of the night.

            Buffy lies on her back, alternately hugging the covers to her chin and shoving them all to the foot of the bed.  She can't seem to get her pillows exactly right either.  With just one, the cushioning isn't soft enough.  With two, there's too much elevation.  Spike, on the other hand, has been sleeping soundlessly for more than two hours, turned on his side, completely oblivious to her restlessness, though at times her violent shifts have jostled his white head from its resting place.  

            She can't stop thinking about something she saw in the paper today, something she had to read over and over again before she could finally believe it.  And the memory of it is making her mouth water.

            At last she rolls over on her side to look at her lover, silent and sweet in his slumber.  She hates to do this, but if she doesn't, she will not sleep.  And a girl in her condition needs her rest.

            "Hey,"  she whispers, poking Spike in the shoulder.  "Hey!"  she tries again, more insistently this time.

            His eyes flutter open as he jerks awake.  "What's wrong?  Are you in pain?"

            "No.  No!  Nothing like that.  It's just that I was thinking.  They have this new Breyer's ice cream.  It's Almond Joy flavored."

            Spike blinks back at his girlfriend for several minutes before what she is saying completely registers.  "Buffy, I was sleeping!"

            "Yeah, I know.  But I wasn't.  Because I was thinking about the ice cream and how I want some."

            He stares back at her, incredulously.  "You mean, right now?"

            "Well, yeah,"  she answers slowly, suddenly bashful in his gaze. 

            He flips over onto his back, lying with a hand fanned over his face.  He looks over at the clock through his fingers.  It's twenty after two.  Just when he's finally getting used to sleeping at night, this is what she pulls…

            "I don't suppose you'd settle for an ice cream brunch, say, around elevenish tomorrow?"

            "But that's hours from now!"  she whines, prodding the back of his naked calf with her toes.  "Please, honey?  I mean, it's all I can think about right now.   Nuts, chocolate, coconut…and it's in _ice cream_!   It's, like, a pregnant woman's dream!"

            He still can't believe what she asking him to do.  And moments later, when he's on his feet and looking for his clothes, he can't believe he's actually going to do it.

            Love's bitch, he says to himself as he shoves his tee shirt into his jeans.  I am love's bitch.  Love's sodding lap dog.  Love's constant concubine.  Love's bleeding---

            "Thank you, honey,"  she says, eyes shining in gratitude.

            She looks so lovely in her contentment now, extending her hand to him.  Under the whisper thin sheet, he can discern the rise of her burgeoning breasts and under them, the concave belly that makes itself more and more evident every day.  Just this evening she was in the kitchen, reaching up into the cupboards to put away the dinner dishes, he caught a glimpse of the undercarriage of her belly cradled in the waistband of her sweatpants.

            He can't help smiling as he takes her hand.  "All I can say is, I'm getting some when I get back,"  he warns, kissing her across her knuckles.  

            "Don't worry.  I'll share it with you."

            He leans in close to her now, growling into her ear, "That's not what I meant."

            "Oh.  Oh!  Well, I guess."

            The blush he is still able to inspire in her cheeks cheers him.

            He gives her a wink before shoving off.  "Just don't make a habit of this."

            "I won't.  I promise,"  she says resolutely.   "But just in case, maybe you'd better stock up.  I'm going to be pregnant for a long time."

            A few nights later, there is a repeat performance.  Only this time, it's beef jerky she wants.

            "I'm sorry,"  she says as Spike stumbles around the room collecting his clothes.  "It's just that Travis and Dawn finished off the ice cream today and I was watching TV and there was this Slim Jim commercial.  And I thought about how I haven't had a Slim Jim in a long time.  Then we had dinner and I wasn't hungry anymore, but now I am."

            "Right,"  Spike says, pulling on his boots.  "Slim Jims."

            "They usually have them right by the register at the Stop n' Gulp,"  she says.  "You won't have to look for them."

            "Fine." 

"Thank you, honey,"  she says, running a hand through the springy curls on top of his head.   

He can still smile at this point at the enchantment in her appreciative purr. 

Five nights later, it's frozen Snickers bars she wants.  Then, two days after that, cheap frozen pizza.  On this particular night, it's Velveeta on Club crackers she pines for.

 He turns to her before he leaves, thinking about what she said when she started having these cravings.  _I'm going to be pregnant for a long time… _"Buffy, do you suppose you could have one of your prophetic dreams that might tell us what you might be fancying next in the middle of the night?"

"Nah,"  she says, pulling her knees to her chest as much as she can.  "I wish I could.  It would take the guesswork out of my weekly grocery trips.  Besides.  The last dream I had was about all my teeth falling out and I was trying to find a dentist to put them back in, but all the dentists in town went to Las Vegas to work for Seigfried and Roy."

A few nights later, Spike wakes to Buffy stroking his cheek gently, saying over and over again, "Wake up, honey.  Wake up."

He automatically sits up and slides his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his face.  "What is it this time?  Those Fudge Oreos we saw a commercial about tonight?"  He is seriously thinking about canceling their cable service.  But that would mean disconnecting TVLand.  And Hogan.  _Hogan_!

"No,"  she replies.

"Those new tortilla chips you can find in the aisle right next to Pringles?"

"No,"  she says, tickling the back of his neck.

"Kraft Macaroni and cheese?"

"No."

"Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing?"

"No,"  she says.  "It's nothing I want you to get for me.  It's something I want you to feel."  She grabs his hand and drags it over to her stomach.  

Under his flattened palm, over the warmth of her flesh, there is something just skimming the underside of her belly in its floatation inside of her.

He turns, pressing his hand closer to her skin, hoping to feel more.

"I woke up and I felt this fluttering.  Like a blind moth had lost its way inside of me.  And then I felt it from the outside,"  she explains.  

"Oh,"  she says.  It seems the little thing is shy to touch.  Maybe his cold pat is sending him away.  But he felt that first small quiver.  He has seen him.  He has heard him.  And now he has felt him.

Every once in a while the thought seizes her that she is no more capable of taking care of a child than she is solving the problems between the Israelis and the Palestinians.  When her mother died, the bottom dropped out in her life and all things that were real to her vanished.  The bond with her mother was the only real relationship in her life.  Though Dawn is as true a sister as she could have and she is made from her blood, she is not really her sister.  This is hard for her to believe when the memories trot themselves out in her mind for show.  The Barbie hair-cutting incident…the actual haircutting incident in which Buffy cut Dawn some jagged bangs with her blunt scissors,  the time when Dawn read Buffy's diaries, the time when Buffy read Dawn's diaries, the time Dawn thought Angel was evil, the time Buffy thought Angel was evil…

But this baby. 

She is so scared sometimes she feels like she cannot hold on.  She feels so beyond control at times that she thinks someone else has commandeered her life and she's watching from the sidelines.  She is so helpless some days that she wants her mother to come back, just for one day, to hold her and tell her everything will be all right.

But then she has that feeling.  That sense of rightness.   For every time she is paralyzed with fear for what is to be, she is pacified by moments like these when she sees her lover's hand sliding over her stomach and the joy in his face, more prominent than the high cheekbones, more vivid than the blue of his azure gaze.  

"I think the show is over for tonight,"  she says, drawing her fingers through his hair and placing a kiss on his non-pulsating temple.  

He leans his head against her stomach once again, inviting the swoosh of the baby's heartbeat into his ear canal.  His hand remains there, all night, just in case there's an encore. 

A few nights later, Buffy is lying awake again.  She whispers into his ear, "Almond Joy."

He can all but set his inner alarm to these awakenings now.  All of his clothes are at the ready, so that he can just slip them on and be off.

"The ice cream or the candy bar?"  he asks, swinging his coat onto his shoulders. 

"Both!"  she says giggling, pulling the covers over her mouth, just enjoying the pre-sugar high giddiness of her request.  

At the supermarket, the obviously sleep-deprived checker slides the carton of ice cream not once, not twice, but three times over the scanner before the price registers.  She stifles a yawn as she asks, "Expecting a baby?"

Apparently not only is Buffy starting to show, but so is _he_.

"Yeah,"  he says, passing a five-dollar bill to the checker.

"Thought so.  When I was pregnant, I was sending my husband out all the time at night for everything from deviled ham to olive loaf."

Spike nods as he takes the change in his hand.  He stuffs the dollar bill and coins into the front pocket of his jeans and heads for the automatic doors.

            It's dead quiet tonight, and for a moment he thinks he's the only creature stirring at this hour.  As he's making his way to the DeSoto, he hears something, coming from the rear of the supermarket.   It's unmistakable to him as to what it is.  It's the sound of a woman's desperate scream.

            Quickly, he throws the groceries into the front seat and runs in the direction of the now strangulated cry.  Looks like he's in for a spot of violence before bed.  And this was supposed to be his night off.

            In the alleyway behind the supermarket, the scene is revealed to him in shades of black and gray, but it could not be made any clearer to him even if he were viewing it all in bright colors.   A woman struggles under the hulking figure of a vampire, her eyes wide with terror, her fingers clawing uselessly at her attacker's back.  

            "Tacky, tacky, tacky,"  Spike says, clicking his tongue as he strolls in the alleyway.

            His words temporarily distract the vampire who growls his displeasure at the interruption of his meal.

            "You must be new, otherwise you would know that this is not the way we do things around her,"  Spike says, extracting a stake from the inside of his jacket.

            The vampire must think that his quick snack is not worth the fight because all at once, he pitches the sobbing woman to the ground and takes off.

            "Hey!  Come back here!  You don't run away from a staking!  It's bad manners!"  Spike yells after the vampire.  He throws the stake, knowing that he's hit the mark when the figure bows and disappears into flakes of monochromatic dust.  He shakes his head disapprovingly.  "These young ones today.  All cowards.  Afraid of their own shadows, they are."

            He turns his attention now to the woman on the pavement, still choking out her hysteria.  

            "You all right?"  he asks, offering his hand to help get her to her feet.

            She lifts her face to his.  Smudges of mascara star her eyes as the tears continue to fall.  Suddenly, she springs from the ground and propels herself into Spike's arms.

            "Oh, God.  Thank you, thank you, thank you!"  she lets out in one sob-throttled blast as she clutches him.

            Spike's arms remain stiff at his side.  This is not the reaction he was expecting to say the least.  As thrown as he is by the woman's actions, he is beginning to see something he has not noticed before.  The woman isn't a woman at all.  She's a young girl, maybe not even eighteen yet.  She is wearing a perfume fragrant with wild berries and even through her tears she is still chewing on a piece of gum.  The warmth of her arms is permeating the density of his leather coat and he shivers as though someone has run an ice cube down his back.

            "I was sooo scared.  I kept thinking, 'Please don't kill me, please don't kill me,' but I couldn't say it.  God, I'm supposed to graduate from high school in June!"

            There is something else he is noticing now:  the scent of her shed blood soaking her store-issued blue blouse.  It's right under his nose and she is holding him in such a way that he cannot turn his face.  Her wild, curly hair is obscuring the marks her attacker left, but his keen eyes discern the red streaking the blond locks, making them appear amber in patches.  Without any effort at all, he inhales deeply, the scent now coating the insides of his nostrils, coursing down his throat, warming his stomach. A flicker of a flame ignites inside of him as though from a fire stamped out and smothered and thought safe to be left unattended.  He is suddenly taken by an urge so potent he is dizzy with need and hunger.  His inner self shakes himself awake and before he can coax that part of him back into its slumber, a low growl emerges from his lips.  He feels his head being dragged by an invisible force to the girl's neck

The familiarity of the alleyway resurrects the plaintive voice of his beloved, asking him between pants and thrusts, "You won't kill, will you?  Promise you won't kill."  And he hears himself swear to her again that he won't.  

His head snaps back now.  With all the strength he can muster, he tears the girl away from him.  He ducks his head so that she can't see that while in her embrace, he rediscovered his demon.

"Run,"  he says in a low voice, steadying himself by bracing his hands against his thighs.

Startled, the girl stammers, "Wha---?   Is something wrong?"

"I said run!"  he howls.

He hears a bit of hesitation in her first steps away, but then she breaks out into a full gallop.  When he doesn't hear her footfalls on the pavement anymore, he rises slowly from his crouched position, a vague sickness causing him to sway.  

He takes a few steadying breaths.  He puts a hand to his face, feeling the coarse bumps across his forehead.  He traces his cheekbones to his mouth, drawing his thumb over his fangs, breaking the skin without so much as a wince.

With a shout, he flings himself against the brick, the bones forming the ridge of his cheek nearly shattering on impact.  His hands come up to press against the cool surface of the wall.  He remains there for many minutes, trembling, afraid that the next step he takes will be in the direction of the girl with the berried perfume and the blood-soaked hair who will graduate high school in June.

"I'm not a monster,"  he says."  "I'm not a monster…I'm not a monster…I'm not a monster."

All of a sudden he hears the wail of a siren piercing the quiet of the night, very near.  He can only hope that the young girl is being taken away to the hospital and far away from him.

"Mmm, melty,"  Buffy says, pulling the lid off her ice cream before delving into it with the spoon she keeps in her bedside table.

Spike still remains at the foot of their bed, having passed the ice cream to her and the candy bar as well.  He feels he can't step further because there is something off limits about her tonight, something in his own mind that warns him away.

"You want some?"  she asks, offering a dripping spoonful to him.

"No,"  he answers readily.  

"Your loss,"  she says, taking the spoonful into her mouth.

I shouldn't be allowed near her, Spike thinks to himself.  She is only allowing me to come so near because she has convinced herself that I'm not a monster, but I am.  I am because tonight---

He tells her everything.  He confesses all that happened.  He tries to voice his need and he sees her quiver.  He sees her draw a protective hand against her stomach.

"OK,"  she says.  "OK.  OK," she says, as though repeating "OK" will make everything all right.  "But you let her go."

"Because I love you," he can only answer, crawling into bed, black boots making scuffmarks against the floral sheets as he creeps towards her.

But this doesn't answer anything.  Over the swell of her belly, Buffy's hand almost touches his.  Almost.  The inch gap between their fingertips seems like a wide savannah that neither of them can navigate without losing each other completely.  They stare at the chasm for many minutes, with the ice cream melting under the heat of the bedside lamp and the night deepening.   It's three thirty when Spike undresses and takes his place beside Buffy and they slip into a dreary slumber that couldn't possibly be qualified as rest.  Several times Buffy awakes to the gentle agitation of her child paddling restlessly inside of her and she falls back into a prickly sleep.  She feels her lover beside her, his back turned to her.  The curves of their spines form inverted parentheses in which they fit all the things they can't voice to each other.  They awake dead from their mutual restiveness, nearly blind from watching the dark, nearly deaf from the voices in their heads damning them to the break of dawn.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

            Spike clips the newly risen vampire with an uppercut to the jaw, sending the fledgling flailing backwards against a waist-high tombstone.

            "You may not be thinking this now, but I'm about to do you a favor, mate."  Spike says, picking up the vampire by his collar, only to slam him back on the tombstone.  "You're new to the game, given the football jersey your family thought you would want to be buried in."  The fledgling snarls and claws at Spike, who promptly reprimands him with a punch to his nose.  "Let me tell you a little story.  Give you a little glimpse at what the future holds for you."  Spike drags his struggling opponent into direct moonlight and tosses him against the ivied wall of a nearby crypt.  

            "I'm certain that you awoke hungry, with blood being the first thing on your mind after 'My God!  How do I get out of here?'  Well, guess what?  It's going to be the first and only thing on your mind for a long time."  Spike punches the vampire again.  "And you'll go anywhere to find it.  Strip malls, boat shows, family reunions, concerts with festival seating."  He head-butts the vampire.  "Any place where there's warm, gorgeous blood flowing through the bodies of warm people who may or may not be so gorgeous."  Spike releases his hold on his prey, suddenly in the mood for a bit of sparring.  "It's all fun and games for a while.  You'll feel like every day is a friggin' tea party and you're the maddest hatter of all," Spike tells him, dancing, awaiting the first punch.  "But then, one day, it happens." 

            The vampire, recovering some of the sense Spike has so mercilessly knocked out of him, charges at his attacker.  Spike deflects the vampire's advance with a flourish of his black leather duster as though expecting to hear "Ole!" shouted from an invisible crowd.   Spike grabs the vampire by the back of his jersey and hurls him to the ground.  

            "You meet a girl who challenges you in every way.  She's wily, cunning, a warrior princess without the lesbian overtones.  When you meet her, she lays down the gauntlet wordlessly.  It's kill or be killed, she says to you with her khol-lined eyes and mascara'ed lashes.  And she's not kidding.  And neither are you.  In your mind, she's as good as eulogized and buried."  The vampire rushes at him again, but Spike trips him with a quick acting calf, landing the vampire on his back.  Standing over his victim, he says, "There's only one problem.  Well, there are lots of problems which, if detailed, would require flow charts and an annotated bibliography.  So let me give you the short version.  Not only is she a singular force to be reckoned with, but she's got all these chums to back her up.  And though, individually, each one is about as imposing as a crossing guard at an elementary school..."  The vampire tries to rise and Spike deftly pens him with the crush of his boot.  "together they form a force that almost matches the girl's.  So not only do you have the girl twitching her stuff in your face, all the time saying, 'Ha ha ha ha ha, you can't catch me!', but you also have these miscreants making damn well certain you don't get near her."

            Spike lifts his boot and then bends to recover the vampire in his grasp.  He aims his gaze right into the vampire's searching gold eye gawk.  "But then, one day, after a harmless shag with that bint who will occasionally let you have a poke at her, you wake up.  And suddenly the girl is all you can think about.  And now you can't kill her.  And it's not because she's gotten tougher or that the mouth breathers who protect her have sprouted bollocks.  No, you can't kill her because you love her."  He hoists the vampire into the air, only to drop him onto the hard ground.

            The vampire lies groaning, unable to move or even lift a finger.  Spike looks up at the sky.  The red strobe of a passing jetliner hurries its way through a crowd of twinkling stars.  It's such a clear night and the moon is so full that the whole cemetery is bathed in a soft white as though draped in the fine mesh of the material used to make fairies' wings.  

            "You love her with all your being,"  Spike continues, swallowing hard as he looks up at the night sky.  "You love her so much that you can't stand to see her hurt.  So you find yourself an ally to her cause, going shoulder to shoulder with her whole team against a whirly bird of a god who thought the girl's kid sister might help her get back to where she once belonged.  But all along, even though you virtually pant her name when you talk to her and there's a visible shift in your trousers whenever she's around, she's completely oblivious to how you feel.  Because, in her mind, you can't feel.  You're a vampire.  You can't love.  You can't hope.  You can't hope that she'll love you as ferociously as you love her.  When she looks at you, she still thinks of your heart as place for her stake.  Not a place for your love for her.  But as long as she looks at you that way, you want her to kill you and make it quick.  And hopefully, before the dust settles, she will realize that she has done something wrong."

            The vampire begins to stir and Spike returns his attention to the battle.  "Wrong?  Did I say wrong?"  He kicks the vampire in the jaw.  "She never does anything wrong.  She knew it was wrong to have feelings for me, but she did anyway.  I knew that the night we had that Winnie and Kevin kiss on the back stoop."

            "Winnie and Kevin from _The Wonder Years_?"  the vampire asks.  

            "Yeah, those two.  Were you a fan?"

            "In re-runs."

            Spike nods.  "Good show.  Anyway, we kissed, then a few days later we shagged and God…the minute I was inside of her, that was a minute too quick.  I wish I could have stretched that moment into hours, days even.  And do you know why?  Because I was feeling her and she was feeling me and whatever passion I had for her, she gave back ten fold.  I knew then that she loved me, even if she wasn't prepared to tell me just then.  But I was the one to know that everything was wrong.  I left her.  I came back because every waking moment was about her until there were only waking moments.  She almost died.  She told me she loved me.  We moved in together.  I share a nice flat with her and her sister now.  And now she's pregnant.  And I'm the Daddy."

            The vampire chuckles.  "Yeah, right."

            Spike takes the vampire by the collar again and slams him against the cold marble of a body-length tombstone.   He shoves his stake against the vampire's Adam's apple and growls, "Of course, my story isn't typical."  And he lifts the stake, plunging it into the vampire's heart.

            As the vampire's ashes scatter and as the final howl dissipates into the air, the moon shines a light on the inscription.  _My sorrow is such that my life dwindles from day to day without your tender caress.  When we meet again, out hearts will be fire once more._

            He sees the words and it's as though he's seeing them for the first time, or he's reading them in a different context.  The dust skitters across the lettering, settling into some of the grooves.  He wipes away the vampire's remains with his hand and traces the words _tender caress_ and almost feels it.

            "All for you, sweetheart,"  he murmurs to himself.  He looks down at the cold stone and it's as though he is looking into a reflecting pool, with his lover's sweet face staring back up at him.  "If that's wrong, then it will just have to be wrong.  But I don't think it is.  I don't see how helping the woman I love could be wrong.  You worry sometimes your love for me won't be enough to stop me from doing something evil, but I think it will always be enough, as long as we're together."

            "And we're done with the hip-huggers,"  Buffy says defeatedly, sending her offending pants across the room with a flick of her wrist.  "You know what that means,"  she says to Spike as she delves into the dark recesses of her closet.  She emerges shortly afterward with a pair of navy blue trousers.  "The evils of the elastic waistband."

            "Awww…"  Spike says.  He is stretched out on their bed, under the thin veil of the sheet, his hands behind his head.  They've just made love and for an hour afterward she lay quietly in his arms sleeping while he was awake, staring at the fullness of her breasts and the bulge of her belly.  She is always lovely when cloaked in slumber, but now, with all the curves enhancing her body, she is so enticing he can't take his eyes off her, even when his lids are nearly slamming shut from exhaustion.  Since that time, he has been watching Buffy try on article after article from her closet.  There are two piles on the floor:  clothes that no longer fit and clothes that look ridiculous on a pregnant woman.

"At least Dawn has stopped borrowing my new clothes,"   Buffy says pouting as she stretches the waistband, staring at the unfathomably large garment in her hands.  

"Let's face it.  Your girlfriend is a pig,"           

"No, _I'm_ the pig, remember?"  he says.  "I think you're adorable.

 "Don't try to patronize me with that 'there's more of me to love' crap because I don't believe that for a second."

"Well, it's true."

"Please.  The day stretch marks are sexy is the day that Lara Flynn Boyle models for Lane Bryant."

Spike leaps from the bed and grabs Buffy, slamming her down on the bed.  It occurs so quickly that as her back meets the mattress, she's wondering how she got there.  He maneuvers his naked body on top of hers, pressing his hardened muscle against the cotton of her panties, stretched tight over her still moist curls.  He scrapes the tip over the elastic gathers fitted around the tops of her thighs.  "Does this feel like a man reacting to the sight of his girlfriend looking grossly unattractive?"

"No," she says breathlessly, caught up in the intensity of his eyes.

He lowers his head to hers and indulges her in a kiss.  His hands move down the concave belly until his fingers grasp the waistband of her panties.  

"Honey,"  she says, breaking the kiss, "We can't…start---oh!---this now.  I have to go---Jesus Christ!---to work."

His head is now bobbing against her breast as he takes her nipple, made ultra-sensitive by her current condition, into his mouth and sucks it ardently.  He pauses briefly to assure her, "I'll make it fast."

"But I have to be there in, like---oh!---ten minutes!"

"That's all I need,"  he replies.

He lifts her knees, her legs forming twin arches on either side of him.  He slides her panties down just enough to settle into her heat.  His hands are now appreciating the deep tendrils of pink just above her hips where the skin is beginning to stretch as he begins to pound into her.  She lies before him, her arms stretched towards the bedposts, her eyes closed.  She tweaks her own nipple between her finger and thumb and Spike takes that as a hint.  He positions his mouth so that his lips completely encircle the rosy areola.  His tongue licks at the toughening peak and Buffy's mouth comes open to a howl of pleasure.

Sensing that he is about to lose control, he moves her closer to her own climax by adjusting the angle of his thrusts.  He can't stifle the proud grin that springs out on his face when her inner muscles begin to quiver around him.

With a hoarse cry, he falls on top of her torso as she convulses and sends a wild sigh into the air.   

She ties the ribbon of her lips into a satisfied smile as she lies there, rifling through her lover's hair with her fingers.  "God, you're a monster."

He lifts his head at her comment, a sudden darkness encroaching on the afterglow.  "What?"  he asks sharply.

 Her eyes fly open wide.   "Oh, honey, I didn't mean---

He slips out of her and crawls limply as an injured animal to his side of the bed, curling up on his side.

She touches his shoulder.  "Spike, I just meant that sexually, you know, you're a---

"Right,"  he hisses into his pillow.

 She lies there for a few minutes, caught in the quandary of needing to clarify her words and needing to get ready for work.   

Finally, she rises from the bed and makes her way back over to the closet, carrying her damp panties in her hand.  Steadying herself on the edge of the bed, she slips them on and then bends to retrieve her pants.  She reaches into the closet to get her work shirt.

Shimmying into her glittery halter-top, she pulls the fabric as far as it will go over her stomach and then puts on her pants.  "You know, at least now since I've gotten bigger, so have the tips I've been getting.  I think people are feeling sorry for me,"  she says, hoping that a change in subject will distract him from his suddenly sour mood.

"Hhhmp,"  comes his muffled reply.  

She takes the tip purse from the top of the bureau, making sure there aren't a few stray dollar bills she has overlooked before she snaps the purse to her belt.  Lately she's been walking away with $300 plus a night.  She has started a fund at the bank, a savings account for the baby.  She will need it because she plans to take a month off after the baby is born and she will work up until her due date.  She has no choice.

About to leave, she looks at her lover, who has buried his face in the crook of his arm.

 "Spike,"  she says, "My next appointment is on Tuesday."

"What of it?"

"Well, I wanted to know if you would come with me.  Dr. Hemphill said that she might be able to tell the sex of the baby by this time."

"Are you sure you want a monster going along for your monthly prod and probe?"

Her shoulders sag.  "I'm sure that I want the father of my baby to be with me."

He continues to lie there in silence as the minutes tick by.

Seeing that the digits on the right hand side of the clock have now flipped to 02 and she's going to be oh so late for work, she breathes out a defeated sigh and turns to go.  "Fine then."

When she is out in the hallway, she hears him call her name and she stops.

"What time is the appointment?"

"5:00 pm."

"It's still light out then."

"You can wear your cloak."

"But the reception area---

"I'll ask the secretary to have the shades drawn.  I'll tell her that you have an allergy to sunlight."

"So you really want me to go with you?"

"Absolutely."

There are a few minutes of uncertain quiet from within the bedroom.  Finally he says, "Then I'll go."

"OK, I'm beginning to think that the whole Vietnam War thing was wrong from the beginning, but the United States just kinda backed into it and then couldn't pull out,"  Dawn says over books strewn on the kitchen table.

"Yeah, you're right,"  Travis says.  "But I think Mr. Jarman's essay question is going to ask for a little bit more than that."

"This really sucks because you know Mr. Jarman was all into the hippie scene in the sixties.  I mean, you can almost smell the patchouli when he talks about his years protesting everything.  And that's what they did in the sixties.  They just hated everything, but they talked about love and the common man and working for a better consciousness and blah blah blah.   Anyways, Spike was at Woodstock.  He said it was muddy and smelly and too crowded."  She won't tell Travis the more interesting story about how Spike bit a flower child and watched his hand move for three days.

"Really?  How old is Spike?"  Travis asks.

Dawn realizes that she may have given away too much just now.  "Oh.  Old.  Boyfriend of older sister old.  Actually, I think he may have been a baby at Woodstock.  A baby with a good memory.  He was in his carriage.  He remembers hearing Jimi Hendrix playing the Star Spangled Banner as his mother breast fed him."

"His mother was one of those earth mother types who feeds her baby until he has wisdom teeth, I guess."

"You got it,"  Dawn laughs.  "Anyway.  Getting back to the Vietnam War…"

There are voices on the other side of the door now.  Cheerful, happy voices.  Buffy and Spike emerge from the hallway, still chatting about the doctor visit.  Buffy slings a bucket of chicken at her side.  She is wearing a white tee shirt and black Adidas sweats.   Spike is wearing his "monk's" cloak and strips it off the minute he enters the apartment.

They are both startled to see Travis there.

"Oh hey,"  Buffy says.

"Hey,"  Dawn and Travis answer together.

"You guys studying?"  Buffy asks as Spike nervously tosses his cloak over the coat rack.  

"We were,"  Dawn says.

"Well, it's time for a study break.  We've brought food.  Travis, would you like to stay for dinner?  We've got plenty and because I didn't make it, it's perfectly safe."

Dawn whips her head around at her boyfriend hopefully.  He can only answer yes after that.

"Uh, sure,"  Travis says.  "I just have to call home."

"Telephone's right over there,"  Buffy motions.

"That's OK, I got my cell phone."  He rises from the table and excuses himself to make the call out in the hallway.  

Spike makes sure he has left the apartment before he says in a nasally whine, meaning to parrot Travis, "That's OK.  I got my cell phone."

Buffy takes the chicken out of the box and puts it onto a platter so that it appears she has actually done something to make the meal.  Licking her fingers, she warns Spike, "Be nice!"

"Yes, please, Spike,"  Dawn says.  "Don't start anything with him tonight."

"Now when have I ever started anything with Wuss n' Boots?"

"Like, every time he's over!"  Dawn retorts.  

"I always make myself scarce when he's about."

"You always make yourself _scary_ when he's around, you mean."

"All right, that's enough!"  Buffy yells above their juvenility.  "Listen, this is Travis' first dinner with us, so let's try to make a good impression, OK?  Let's show him that we're nice, normal people who have a warm and welcoming home.  Now Spike, will you be eating with us or should I heat up some blood for you?"

Out in the hall, Travis listens to the phone ring once, twice, all the time hoping and praying, "Please don't let Mom pick up…please don't let Mom pick up…please don't---  But then a feminine voice answers and his heart goes into a free fall.  "Hey, Mom.  Dawn wants me to stay over for dinner.  Is that OK?"

There is a lengthy sigh on the other end.  "Well, I guess, Travis.  I just hope that your father comes home with a huge craving for Cornish Game Hen.  I've got six of them roasting in the oven now."

Travis swallows.  "You can wrap one up for me.  I'll eat it when I get home."

"No, no.  That's all right.  You…you can use tonight to lay the groundwork for what you have been chosen to do for us."

"Yeah,"  he replies hoarsely.

Dinner is over.  Now, drowsy from the feast, they are lounging around the table like sated Romans after Saturnalia. 

Buffy pats her humming stomach and leans back in her chair, still salivating for the last bit of fried poultry sweating grease onto her mother's blue Fiestaware platter.

"So, how's your mother?"  Buffy asks.

"She's fine,"  Travis answers.  "She's very busy now with the lily show and all.  She's big into her garden club.  I don't see much of her at this time of year."

"And your Dad?"  Buffy asks.

"Well, he's always at work.  He works about eighty hour weeks.  But it makes Mom happy.  Not that he's at work so much, but that they're back here."

"They're back here?"  Buffy asks,

"Well, Mom grew up here.  She loves Sunnydale.  And when Dad had a chance to come here, she was, like, yay!  Go Sunnydale!  Who would want to come back here?"

Buffy laughs a "you had to be there laugh" that is joined by Spike's chortle.  She fixes her gaze with her lover's and for a moment they are so locked in each other's eyes it appears they are gone away to another place.  Then Buffy puts Spike's hand on her stomach and his eyes register a secret, covetous smile that Travis brutally understands.

"Is that the baby kicking?"  Travis asks.

"Yeah,"  Buffy answers drowsily.  "He always gets active after his Mommy has overindulged.  Or at night when his Mommy's trying to sleep."

"So you know it's going to be a boy?"  Travis asks.

Again, there is that unspoken conversation between Buffy and Spike, delivered only in a glance.  

"It didn't show on the scan today,"  Buffy says.  "But it doesn't matter.  We don't have a nursery for the baby, so there are no walls to decorate in feminine or masculine colors.  We think we'd rather wait anyway to see what he is when we see him for the first time.  But I just have the feeling that he's a boy."

"I do too,"  Spike says, kissing Buffy on her forehead.

"May I?"  Travis asks.

"Sure.  I don't think of this as being my stomach anymore as it is a baby with my skin stretched over it."

Travis places his hand against the drum skin tightness of Buffy's belly.  There is a stirring under his palm, a little pulsation that he doesn't know how to deal with.

He can only say, "Wow."

"You and me both,"  Buffy says.  "Even now.  That's my baby."  She looks at Spike.  "That's our baby."

Travis feels the child inside the mother.  He hears the words poured into his head, remembrances of heated sermons from the pulpit of his church, the minister delivering the promise of the child who will come from the demon and the Slayer who will draw together the crevice defining Earth and Hell.

"I'm going to be an aunt!"  Dawn declares gleefully.  

"I've got to go,"  Travis says, getting to his feet.

"Why?"  Dawn asks.

"Because…"  He looks at Dawn.  He looks at Spike and Buffy.  He doesn't have to look at the… "I have to go."

He runs from the apartment until he can't run anymore.  At the bottom of the hill, when he reaches the line separating the have not's and the have too much of Sunnydale, he vomits up his chicken dinner on a parked BMW.  He hugs the hood of the vehicle as he says to himself, "I won't hurt Dawn.  I won't hurt Dawn."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

            Buffy sits on the sofa, a makeshift beret of pastel ribbons and bows positioned on her head at a jaunty slant.  At her feet is a treasure trove of all things baby---tiny booties, tiny socks, tiny mitts, tiny sleepwear.  Just now she is divesting the final present of its Mylar gift-wrap.  

            "Wow!  A Diaper Genie!"  she exclaims.

            "Oooh!"  Anya coos, munching on a handful of Chex mix.  "Is it a real genie?"

            "No, Anya,"  Buffy says, "It's a disposal for the baby's diapers so they don't stink up the apartment after they've been pooped and peed in."

            Anya looks unimpressed.  "Would be better if it were a real genie.  Then you wouldn't have to touch those nasty things at all.  You could just tell the genie to change them.  But anyway.  Hey!  Great gift-giving idea for those of you still looking for that perfect gift for Xander and me!"

            The gathering nods, tucking any comments they may be expressing inwardly into their knowing smiles.

            "Well, I think that's all of it,"  Buffy says.  "Time for cake!"

            "Not just yet!"  Dawn says as she gets to her feet.  She clears her throat and pushes her long hair back in two dramatic swipes as though opening the curtains for her performance.  "You guys may have been noticing that I've been writing stuff down as Buffy's been unwrapping.  Well, not only have I been jotting down who gave what, but also Buffy's reactions to the gifts.  And according to baby shower legend, these are some of the very same things she said the night she conceived her little Slayerette.  And since I was in the next room, I can tell you most of these are, as Spike would say, 'Spot on!'"

            There is a small ripple of laughter as Buffy gives her sister a look that says "I may be side-lined with this pregnancy thing, but I'm still the Slayer!"

            "Don't worry, Buffy.  I've edited most of them for the family hour,"  Dawn says with a sly grin.

            Buffy shakes her head slowly, smiling behind the hand clamped over her mouth.

            "All right, all right.  Here goes."  Dawn skims what she has written and laughter overtakes her, delaying her delivery for a few minutes.  Recovering herself, she begins with, " 'I've never seen one so tiny!'"  The room erupts in laughter.  Her first attempt a success, she tries another one on the crowd.  " 'I didn't know they came in this color!'"

Once again, it's as though the long-lost audience from a Dean Martin Celebrity Roast has found its way into the living room.  " 'Aww…this is so nice!'" After the listeners have quieted down after that one, Dawn readies for the big finish.  " 'Oh wow!  I know just where to put this!"  

            Once the laughs taper off, Buffy raises an eyebrow to her sister.  "You done with the stand up, Carrot Top?"

            "Yeah, I think that's all of that,"  Dawn says, wiping a few tears from the corners of her eyes.  

            "Good, because I want cake NOW!"

            "Oh!  I almost forgot!"  Anya springs up suddenly.  She rifles through her purse, extracting a business size envelope.  "This is from Giles.  He asked me to give this to you."

            Buffy eyes the envelope curiously.  "Hmmm…I wonder what it is?"

            "Well, open it!"  Willow urges, arms flailing at her sides.

            Buffy slides her thumbnail under the sealed closure, doubly secured by two equally spaced pieces of scotch tape.  She then opens the tri-folded stationery inside.  A rectangular piece of paper flutters to her lap.  She reads the message first, silently to herself and then aloud.  " 'Once again, the man of too many words finds himself speechless.  I don't know what to say to you, Buffy, except I wish you an eternity's happiness with the arrival of your child.'"  She looks down at the jettisoned piece of paper on her lap.  "Oh my God!  A check for $1200!?!?"

            "So that's where my bonus went,"  Anya grumps.

            The message in the memo area of the check reads, "For a good start."  She looks incredulously at the numbers on the check, not even trying to hide the emotion on her face.  He really loves me, she says to herself.  He really does.

            "OK, since we're all in a mushy mood now,"  Dawn says, "I would like to offer a toast."  Dawn waits until everyone has had time to find their punch or refill their paper cups.  She raises her own cup high in the air.  "To my sister Buffy.  At first I thought it was kind of weird.  I mean, you and Spike?  Having a baby?  Who da thought?  But you did.  And I'm glad you did because you're going to be awesome parents.  I know that because since you've been taking care of me, I've had a god after me and all I got was a little bump on my forehead.  And your baby is going to be the luckiest kid on earth because most Mommies and Daddies want to give their children the world; you guys can actually save it for him.  So cheers!"

            There are cheers as well as aw's all around and Buffy rises to her sister's embrace.

            Dawn whispers into her sister's ear.  "I love you.  You know that."

            "Yeah, I do.  And I love you too."  She remains in her sister's arms for a few lingering moments before breaking away, asking, "_Now_ can we have cake?"

            "Yes, now we can have cake,"  Dawn says, rolling her eyes.

With cake in hand, the attendees sit in a horseshoe around Buffy as she shovels in fork after fork of her Oreo ice cream cake.  Mostly, they are too astounded by her appetite to say much of anything until Willow casually breaks the silence.

            "So four weeks, huh?"  Willow asks, spooning the elegant mix of ice cream and cake into her mouth.

"Four weeks,"  Buffy answers, 

            "Are you ready?"

            Buffy smiles.  "Ask me again tomorrow."

            "I just can't believe it's this close to happening.  It seems like you just announced it yesterday,"  Tara says.

            "I know.  It's been an amazing ride.  And except for being sick the first six weeks or so, it's been pretty much trouble free.  I'm getting some swelling in my ankles now from being on my feet all the time at work, but it's not too bad.  I've really enjoyed being pregnant for the most part.  Every once in a while, I'll just sit back and think, 'God, I've got a little person with toes and fingers and everything growing inside of me.'  And then the baby will start to move.  I swear sometimes he's gearing up for the next Olympics the way he summersaults and cartwheels all the time.  As much as I can't wait to see him when he's born, I think I'm going to miss having the little kicker inside of me."

            "Especially when he's screaming his head off at 3:00 in the morning,"  Anya says.

            "Oh, he wakes me up enough as it is.  He really gets moving late at night.  The other night it felt like he had a foot or something caught in my rib cage and I had to rub and rub until he finally dislodged it.  And Spike wakes up whenever there's any kind of baby activity."  She smiles, making a swoosh through the melting ice cream on her plate with her spoon.  "He's been really great throughout this whole thing.  So sweet and so caring.  If he had his way, my due date would be tomorrow.  He studies each and everyone of my ultrasound pictures, looking for any feature that might resembles his.  As soon as I finish a book on pregnancy, he'll pick it up and start reading.  He's so excited sometimes I just want to say, 'Calm down, it's just a baby.'  But then I say to myself, 'it's just a baby…our baby.' And then I'm like, 'aaaaaaahhh!' Because this is the last thing I ever expected to happen between us.  I mean, to think that five years ago he was threatening my life in the alleyway outside the Bronze.  And now, somehow, we've created life together.  And I have to say that I've never been more in love with him.  Because not only can I feel his love for me on the outside, but I feel it flipping around inside of me.  Like right now.  He loves the cake and ice cream combo."  She strokes her hand over the hump of her belly as her baby commences his practice session for the day.

            "So, have you and Spike picked out baby names?"  Tara asks, moving her hand over Buffy's stomach to catch some of the intrauterine action.

            "Mmm,"  Buffy says, ingesting another bit of cake.  "Elizabeth Joyce if it's a girl.  And Daniel William for a boy."

            Willow shrinks back at the suggestion of the latter name.  "Um…Daniel?"

            Buffy's eyes widen.  "What's wrong with Daniel?  Oh God, it's taken us months to come up with these names.  Please don't tell me we have to go back to Hogan Verizon---

            "No no!"  Willow qualifies.  "It's just that…Daniel.  Daniel Osborne.  Oz?"

            "Oh God!"  Buffy says,  "Oh God!  Willow, I completely forgot!  I'm so sorry! It's just that Spike and I were in the car and the song _Daniel _came on the radio.  And the two of us kind of knew then that's what we wanted to name our baby if it were a boy.  A son should be named after his father but we both agreed that Spike is a good name for a hip movie director but not so much for a baby…and Spike is already my William…Daniel just seemed so right when we heard it."

            "That's all right, Buffy,"  Willow says comfortingly.  "I think I'm at the stage where I'm ready for a new Daniel in my life."

            Buffy brings the witch's red head into her embrace and presses a kiss on her forehead.  "Thank you.  And I'm sure Spike would thank you too."

            "What is Spike doing tonight?"  Tara asks.

            "If I know my boyfriend at all, he's probably chasing down some hopeless thing in a graveyard."

Spike eyes the Hollaran demon approaching him with a mischievous gleam.  "So.  I see you've brought on the funk,"  he says, sniffing the demon's tell-tale stench.  "I suppose it's down to me to bring on the noise.  And I got plenty of that."

            "Slayer boy, I have more in store than just myself tonight,"  the demon growls.

            "'Slayer boy?'  Well, that's a new one."

            From the shadows, another Hollaran demon emerges.  Then another one rises to Spike's right.  Another one comes at Spike at his left.  Now he is surrounded in a pentagon of snarling Hollaran demons.

            "You've had time to rally the whole gang,"  Spike says.  His first impulse is to flee.  He knew that they would catch hold of his scent sooner or later.  He only hoped that Buffy would be with him.   "Oh well.  Come to Papa!"

 There is a knock on the door of the Magic Box.  Giles rouses himself from the mildewed text and heads towards the door to greet an inquiring Xander.

            "I was just wondering who was on tonight for graveyard duty.  I thought it might be me."

            Giles scans the erase board where the Scoobies have been scheduling their nightly slayage.  "Spike is on tonight."

            "Wait a minute.  That wasn't there yesterday.  I could have sworn that I was on deck for the dusting tonight."

"He must have erased your name and sketched in his own."

"He's been trading with me a lot.  I guess he's doing all he can to provide for the littlest Scooby."

"I suppose," Giles answers.

            "You want to go see if he needs help?  The guy's been patrolling non-stop for months now.  I bet he could use a break and looking at you, it seems you could use a breather too."

            "Absolutely,"  Giles says, removing his glasses from his face.  "A slaying would do me good."

            Buffy picks up another plate of oozing ice cream cake and drops it into the garbage bag.  "Well, I think tonight went well,"  she says cheerily.

            "Went well?  You cleaned up, Buffy!"  Dawn says, collecting empty cups.  "You and Spike won't have to even darken the doorstep of the Super Baby Store now.  They brought the store to you."

            "There's still tons of stuff that we need.  Just when I think we have everything, I read another article in another magazine that tells me how ill prepared we are for the baby.  I still have to look for that baby wipe warmer."

            Dawn laughs.  "You ought to be looking for a cold hand warmer for Spike."

            "He said he would warm his hands up under the faucet before touching the baby."  She smiles.  "Always works for me."

            There is a knock at the door.  

            "You expecting Travis?"  Buffy asks.

            "Not tonight,"  Dawn says.

            There is an odd assemblage of voices behind the door.  Buffy can hear her Watcher and Xander.  And then, her lover groaning. She throws the door open.  She sees Xander and Giles standing there, a slumped and profusely bleeding Spike held between them.

            As soon as they are allowed entry, they head straight for the sofa.  Once they're there, Xander and Giles deposit the moaning vampire in a heap of black leather and blood.

            "What happened?"  Buffy asks breathlessly as she bends towards Spike.  He seems to be bleeding from every orifice.  Then she sees the cavernous slit gushing blood on the side of his neck.  "Oh God!"

            "Five dull Hollaran demons and an equally dull axe blade is what happened,"  Xander explains.  

            "When we got to the cemetery, he was in the midst of nearly being decapitated,"  Giles said.  "Apparently the demons had some fun with him before staging his would be execution."

            "Dawn, get some bandages from the medicine chest,"  Buffy instructs, wincing as she examines just how closely Spike missed being reduced to dust.

            He coughs, spewing a string of blood and mucous from his lips.  His spasms wrench his broken ribs and he grabs his chest, whimpering miserably.

            "I'm pretty certain one of his arms is broken.  He couldn't manage to walk, so I think he may have a few fractures in his legs as well,"  Giles says.

            Spike lies there, motionless, his eyes shut, his mouth open in a jagged crevice of misery.  His forehead is impressed with the wrinkles of a deep, ongoing pain.  Buffy doesn't dare touch him for fear that her hands will only cause him more hurt. 

            "My God, what did they do to you?"  Buffy asks, tears thickening at the back of her throat.  And why wasn't I there?  She damns herself silently.  The bruises are already coming to black and blue fruition on his pale face.  Tomorrow she suspects there will be a shiner puffing out around his left eye.

"We were able to dispatch two of the demons.  The other three got away,"  Giles says.

There is a sound from Spike's lips.  Buffy bends closer so that she can hear what he's saying.  "Don't."

 "Don't what?"  she asks.

He purses his lips and grimaces as though the very action of talking is taxing everything he has.  "Don't even think about going after them."

Buffy settles her bottom on her heels, wondering if her revenge plotting was loud enough to be heard.

"He's right, Buffy,"  Giles says.  "It's entirely too dangerous for you to be trying to best Hollaran demons in your condition."

"Giles and I are going to smoke them out tomorrow night,"  Xander says.  "Don't worry.  We'll get them."

Buffy feels as though her limbs are bound to her chest and she's being slowly drowned.  Dawn kneels beside her with an assortment of gauze and tape and she selects whatever she thinks will patch up Spike's wounds.  The Slayer begins with the gaping cut just inches shy of the vampire's jugular where years before his sire drank and birthed the beast in him.  All the time the baby is squirming inside of her as though angling for a peek at what has been done to his father.  

Giles and Xander excuse themselves, allowing the two girls to tend to the wounded.  At length, Spike is able to rouse himself enough from his injuries to calm Buffy and Dawn's fears.

"I'm still here,"  he says, almost smiling.

For a moment, Buffy and Dawn stitch together a thread of thought between them, along which their twin thoughts vibrate.  "What would we do without him?"

Dawn is now stroking his left hand.  He responds by taking her fingers in his.  He reaches for Buffy's hand as well and squeezes it, though the effort causes a fresh wave of pain to splash across his face.

"It would take more than some unnecessary roughness by five Hollaran demons to take me away from my girls,"  Spike says.  "Hey.  Was there any cake left over?"

A few nights later, Spike and Dawn are asleep on the sofa.  The vampire's head rests against the back of the sofa while Dawn's has found a place against his less injured arm.  The TV is on and the volume is up at an enormously high level for 2:30 in the morning.  As a commercial for _Girls Gone Wild_ begins, Spike awakes with a snort.

            He feels the weight of Dawn's body against his side and realizes right away that he is not in bed and, presumably, neither is Buffy.

            "Hey!  Little Bit!"  he whispers sharply, tugging at her arm.  "Wake up, love."

            "Mmmm," comes the reply as she rolls her face against his arm.  She then springs up. "What time is it?"  she asks, stretching.

            "Very late,"  Spike answers.  

            Dawn thinks a minute.  Something is wrong.  "Buffy's not home yet?"  she asks.

            "I don't think so,"  he says.  "Else she would have gotten us up to go to bed."

            "Maybe she had to close."

            "No, she said before she left that she would be home at midnight.  She would have called us if she had to stay over."

            "That's true."

The two sit there for a few minutes with worry building in their sleepy faces.  At length Spike gets up and hobbles over on his still mending legs to the coat rack by the door.  

            But before he can put on his duster, Buffy enters the apartment.

            "What on earth kept you?"  he asks, relief invading his concerned features.

            "Sorry,"  she says tiredly, rubbing her sore back muscles.  "We got really busy at midnight and I was asked to stay and help out.  I didn't have a chance to call."  She walks through the apartment, continuing her self-massage.  There is a pronounced squish against the floorboards with every step she takes. 

            The noise, combined with the distinct odor of Hollaran brains, clues Spike in automatically as to what really kept her so busy after midnight.

            In the bedroom, Spike keeps his suspicions to himself as he watches Buffy sit gingerly on the bed.  She is so exhausted it's as though she doesn't know what to do first; take off her clothes or just peel the covers back and climb in.  But she does have to get her shoes off, a task which gets harder and harder each day.  When she lifts one shoe, Spike sees that the bottom is covered in a glaze of orange goo.

            "So, after midnight, everybody converged on the Bronze to let it all hang out,"  he asks.

            "That's what happened,"  Buffy says, wrenching her slipper from her swollen foot.  Her feet look more and more like Fred Flintstone's every day.  She thinks the closer she gets to her due date, the more able she will be able to power a car with them.

            "I suppose you'll be getting some overtime for that,"  he asks.

            "A little.  But like they say, every little bit helps,"  she says, freeing her other foot from the shoe, feeling as though she's just uncorked a bottle of wine.

            "Uh huh.  I see,"  he says.  "So you met up with the Hollaran demons…where?  In the alleyway?  In the cemetery?  In that smart little open air café that always gets wrecked whenever there's some Big Bad stomping about the city?" He watches as her shoulders freeze in the crosshairs of his inquiry

            She makes a slow turn in his direction.  There is a small measure of guilt on her face, but there is also a look of deep satisfaction.  "Spike, I had to do it."

            He lets out an exasperated sigh.  "Buffy, after I told you---

            "Hey, it's too late to argue with me about it, OK?  It's been done."

            "That was very foolhardy of you.  You know that."

            She shrugs.  "Both mother and child are fine and about to be resting comfortably."

            The two commence their nightly ritual wordlessly.  Buffy foregoes taking off her make-up in favor of hitting the sheets.  She barely manages to put on her pajamas, employing her boyfriend to help her shimmy into the bottoms.

            Once they are in bed and the light is snapped off, leaving them blanketed in darkness and in each other's arms, Buffy is reminded once again why her after work errand to the graveyard was so important when Spike inhales a jagged breath as her arms encircle his chest.

            "You should know by now that I don't let anyone mess with my family,"  she tells him soothingly.

            "Oh, I think you've driven that point home quite often, love,"  he answers, kissing her lightly above her left eyebrow.  "Once with a wooden spoon to my chest."

            "I couldn't live with myself, knowing and seeing how much they hurt you and not doing a damn thing about it."

            "You're forgiven this time.  Since it was all done for me,"  he says with a smile.  "Hey.  Did you get them all?"

            "Yep."

            "Really?  All three?"

            She nods.  "What can I say?"  she yawns.   "They didn't stand a chance against two fierce kickers in one."

            A warm breeze flows through the open window, rustling the sheets of the unattended legal pads lying on the meeting room table.  An empty Styrofoam cup skates across the slick surface until it is caught by a quick hand and crushed.  It is late summer, early fall, and there is much on the minds of the parishioners of Saint Catherine's Chapel.  The din poring from the now pitcher's mound size hole in the floor causes them to raise their voices when they speak.  They all pass around silently a look that says, "Is anyone else bothered by that?"

            Mr. Chapman raps the eraser of his pencil against the cover of his calendar.  "Anybody else?  New business?"  he asks in a roar.

            "I have something,"  Phyllis Wright says.   "The Morning Star Circle---

            "You'll have to speak up, Phyllis,"  Mr. Chapman instructs.

            Phyllis gives a peeved look before she continues.  "The Morning Star Circle is participating in a 6 Mile Walk for breast cancer on October 15.  They will need sponsors, of course.  If everyone gives---

            Stanley Walliston holds up a hand.  "Wait, wait a minute, Phyllis.  Did you say a walk for Chester Arthur?"

            "BREAST CANCER,"  Phyllis clarifies loudly.

            "I didn't think that sounded right,"  Stanley Walliston says.

            "Anyway, they would like a five dollar donation from everyone in the church.  Their goal is to raise $750."

            "I'll ask Reverend Estey to make an announcement next Sunday,"  Mr. Chapman says.  "Anyone else?  New business?"

            At that moment, Stanley Walliston's chair begins to teeter to and fro.  There is a crackling sound, as though a hundred head of cattle are being herded slowly across the ground of a leaf-laden forest.   The patch of wood on which Stanley's wobbling chair is sitting breaks free.  Mr. Chapman reaches for Stanley Walliston's  hand, holding him fast to the surely bounds of earth while the chair plunges to the fiery depths below.

            All the parishioners are standing stunned now, their hands over their racing hearts, their faces dead white.

            Mr. Chapman turns to Samantha Singleton as though holding on to one last hope as he lifts Stanley Walliston onto safe ground...for now.

            "You have told Travis about the importance of this baby, haven't you?" he asks.

            "He was raised on it,"  Samantha Singleton says, viewing the crags of the rocky cliffs that tunnel to Hell.

Still holding Mr. Chapman's hand, Stanley Walliston says, "I move that we find another meeting place."

            "Second,"  the others agree without hesitation.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Spike enters the bedroom, towel draped around his hips.  His hair is still dripping wet from his shower and he's using a smaller towel to absorb some of the excess moisture before it can reach the carpet.

Buffy is lying on their bed, robed in pink terry cloth, her hand rubbing the exaggerated tortoise shell of her belly in small, circular motions.

"I thought you would be dressed by now,"  Spike says, opening the doors to their closet.

"Basically I'm delaying looking like a watermelon as long as I can,"  she says dismally, looking at the sea foam green concoction of taffeta and tulle draped on her vanity chair.

"Well, you are pink inside,"  he remarks, tongue between his teeth.

"Ha ha,"  she replies.  She gets up slowly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed as a geriatric would.    When her feet reach the floor, she is gripped by a sudden, sharp pain that seems to go all through her.  For a moment she is too agonized to move, pulling her chin down to her chest and fisting the bedspread.  "Ooooh…"  she groans, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Sweetheart, you all right?"  When there is no immediate reply, Spike quickly scampers over to her.  "Sweetheart?  What's wrong?"

"Nothing,"  she says through clenched teeth.  

"Try again.  What's wrong?"

She looks up at him almost bashfully once the pain subsides.  "It was just a pain.  That's all.  Dr. Hemphill said that I could expect a few pains here and there before actual labor."

"Where was the pain?"  

"Oh.  Here.  And there."

Spike shakes his head.  For two weeks now he has watched her suffer with all matter of aches.  She comes home after her shift at the Bronze, her ankles ringed in two twin inner tubes of fluid, her legs striped red and white like peppermint sticks.  Her legs were cramping so badly the other night she almost cried in her sleep.   Her back troubles her so much that he doesn't even ask her if she needs a massage anymore.  He just strips her down as soon as she gets home and starts to work.  But he's never heard her complain even once, though it hurts him to look at her enduring such suffering.  She has told him to save his sympathy for the delivery when she will really need it.

Still, as he cups her chin in his hand, he feels the need to ask, "Sweetheart, you don't have to go through with this.  I'm sure Anya would understand---

"Anya?  Our Anya?  Not big on the understanding.  The other day she asked me if I could stop growing until after the wedding.  Anyway, I promised her I would be her attendant so I gotta do it.  Big baby gut and all."

"But last night at the rehearsal you had to sit down."

"So?  I'll sit down again if I have to.  Reverend Estey said he would have the altar boy's chair at the ready if I couldn't stand through the whole ceremony."

He can see that there's no point in arguing.  The same resolve that takes hold of her features when she's engaged in battle is in place.  She is going to do this.  After all these years, he has developed a keen sense of when to back away and this is one of those times.

He bends and kisses her lightly on her lips, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear.  "I just hope Anya appreciates how amazing you are."

"She doesn't.  But there are plenty of other people who do."

"Myself included,"  he smiles.

She grins back at him.  Lately she has felt so unattractive in her hefty state that when she sees Spike looking at her with such love in his eyes, she is almost breathless. "Besides," she says, standing up into Spike's sturdy arms.  "I'm looking forward to dancing with my honey at the reception."

"Yeah?  Take your turn with me on the dance floor?  As long as it's not the _Macarena _or that chicken dance, I'm game,"  he says in that plush velvet voice that makes her want to climb the walls.  

He takes her in his arms, leading a mimicry of a dance, his pelvis gyrating against the swell of her abdomen.  She pulls him as close to her as her belly will allow, breathing in the scent of the deodorant soap he used quite liberally while he was showering.  His skin is still damp and warm to the touch.  "Hmm…this reminds me of the time we danced.  On the rooftop."

"And all those stars,"  he says with a laugh in his voice.

"That was so wonderful,"  she says, trailing a hand down his muscular back.

"Shall I dip you?"  he asks devilishly.

"Honey, if you dipped me, I'm afraid I'd never get up again."

He kisses the side of her face.  "I can't think of a million things much worse than being prone with you forever."

She rocks back and forth in his arms, looking into his blue eyes, wondering if he's seeing himself mirrored in her green-gold stare.  She has heard that this is the only reflection vampires can see.  It seems sometime he is seeing something beyond her, beyond anything she as ever viewed.  But in this instance, he is seeing his lady love's features contorting in pain.

Her grip tightens around Spike's form, almost to the extent that if he were a breathing human being, he would be turning blue.

He holds her fast, asking, "That was a bad one, eh?"

"Yeah,"  she breathes.  "But it's nothing I can't handle."  

But he's thinking that she's being too brave as he continues to hold onto him, her fingernails digging into his skin until they draw blood.  And he can smell the blood and he can feel it crawling down his flesh at an ant's pace.   

"It's over now,"  she says valiantly, tossing back her growing locks.  "I'm not going to worry about it."

Spike doesn't share his girlfriend's optimism.  He _is _going to worry about it.  She was dilated three centimeters at her last office visit.  The doctor told her she could keep on with her life until the baby tells her otherwise.  Right now the two of them are just waiting for the baby's next instructions.  Spike is afraid that he is hearing them now. 

Buffy breaks away from him, going over to her gown and picking it up as though it were a large, dead rodent in her kitchen windowsill.  "You go and make yourself handsome.  I'll do what I can with this."

Music from the church's organ commences from inside St. Catherine's Chapel as Spike, Dawn, and Buffy make their way across the darkened parking lot.  It's not the wedding march, so they know they're not too late.

Inside the vestibule, the harried wedding director, sweaty in her light blue polyester shift dress which accentuates all the rolls of fat on her arms and stomach, immediately grabs Buffy and shuffles her across the floor to the gathering of bridesmaids standing at the base of the stairs.  She places her in back of Willow, who seems to be having problems with her décolletage.

"I'm all boobs in this dress,"  Willow says, wiggling in her discomfort.

"You say that like it's a bad thing,"  Tara says lustily.

"Oh please.  You want to talk boobs?  I feel like mine are about to come flying out any second,"  Buffy says.

"Ladies!  Shhh!"  the cranky wedding director scolds.  

"Buffy!  I gotta go pee!"  Dawn says, shifting her weight from leg to leg.

"Why didn't you pee before we left the apartment?"  Buffy asks in exasperation.

"You said we didn't have time, remember?"

"All right!  Go pee then."

Pounding down the stairs to the basement, Dawn meets Anya on the landing, completely decked out in creamy white from head to toe.  Her eyes fire lasers through her veil as the young girl flies past her.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Potty,"  Dawn says.

Dawn can hear Anya whispering a number of expletives under her breath as she continues down the stairs to the darkened hallway below.  She moves along the corridor, noting the strong scent of stale coffee and cheap lemon sandwich cookies.  She passes door after door, peeking into the silent and clean Sunday school rooms, the cavernous fellowship hall, and then…

There is one door on her left now.  She can hear something humming from inside.  When she places her ear close to the door, it takes on an entirely different sound.  That of moaning, like the church itself is close to death, breathing its last.  She tries the doorknob, but it won't turn in her hand.

"You don't want to go in there, little one,"  a voice says behind her.

Her heart nearly leaps from her chest as she whips around at the sound of the voice.  "Jeez!  What the hell?"

In her view now is a diminutive woman, two heads shorter than herself, though she sports a pair of stacked white heels and a flowery pillbox hat to augment her stature.  

"What are you looking for?"  the woman asks in a helium influenced voice.

"The b-bathroom,"  Dawn stammers.

"Down the hall to your left, past the Sacristy."  

Dawn nods her thanks and walks slowly down the hall.  All the while the woman's eyes watch her.  Once she's behind the closed door, she flips on the light, which flickers eerily until the lime green walls are revealed in a wash of fluorescent glow.  She steadies herself by propping a shaky hand on the wall.  Underneath her palm, the plaster is groaning.  She jerks her hand away.

Buffy is looking at an oil painting of a monk, his hands clasped, his eyes trained towards the heavens.  A thin rendering of a golden halo encircles his shorn head.  She looks down at the brass plaque at the bottom of the frame.  "Our Founder, Brother Francis" it reads.  Underneath the heavy frame there is still another plaque that shines in brand newness.  "Portrait Restoration Provided by the Generosity of Mr. and Mrs. Steven Singleton."

"Travis' parents,"  Buffy notes to herself.  To the right of the portrait is a framed 8x10 parchment listing the names of parishioners who are on the sesquicentennial committee.  At the top of the list are Mr. and Mrs. Steven Singleton, co-chairs.

Back in the safety of the gathering at the stairwell, Dawn goes to her sister immediately.

"What's wrong with you?"  Buffy asks, observing Dawn's white marble pallor. 

"Buffy, there's something wrong.  Downstairs,"  Dawn gasps.  "You and Spike need to check it out."

"What is it?"  Buffy asks, laying a hand against Dawn's clammy cheek.

"I'm not sure.  But it's really, really _wrong."_

"OK.  We'll look into it after the ceremony.  The wedding's about to start."

"Please,"  Dawn says.  She takes her own place in line 

At the same time, from behind the altar, where the candelabra and sheet music is kept in a small, airless room, Spike is hearing Xander's recitation of his self-written wedding vows and is reminded, painfully, of his chip-influenced migraine days.

"You and I…we are as meant for each other as a lathe and a two by four.  We balance each other out.  I can see the bubble floating right in the middle when I look at you---

"Oh God, you're not actually going to say that, are you?"  Spike groans.

"Well, you heard me say it last night at the rehearsal."

"Yes, but I thought you were only kidding.  Or at least by now you would have realized the error of your ways."

"Hey, someone once said that you should write what you know.  And I know carpentry."

"That someone was Charles Dickens.  And if Chucky Dick had foreseen that sods incapable of penning a decent dirty limerick would be writing their own wedding vows, he would have amended that statement."

Xander seems too consumed with the tightness of his collar to take offense at Spike's words.  He fusses with the top button of his tuxedo shirt until his bow tie springs open.  Helplessly, he looks at Spike.  "Would you mind?"

Spike sighs and reminds himself that this must be one of the corollary duties Buffy often hinted at if Spike were to ever think of himself as being a Scooby; he has to occasionally feign interest in her friends.  But he does care enough to make sure Xander doesn't look like a piano bar singer after last call for this day of days.

"I'm sweating through this thing,"  Xander says as Spike remakes his bow tie.

"And a lovely scent you're giving off,"  Spike scoffs.

"I guess Right Guard wasn't so much on guard for today,"  Xander says.  

"Why are you so nervous anyway?"  Spike wants to know.   "This is what you want, right?"

"Well, I am taking a big step today that will pretty much change the course of my entire life.  That's bound to make a guy a little edgy, don't you think?"  Xander stiffens.  "By the way, you still thinking about making it legal with Buffy?"

Spike is randomly brushing Xander's lapels when he hears this.  Realizing that this might be far too intimate an action between sworn enemies, he stops.  "It's still on my mind,"  Spike says, wandering off to the spare pew and taking a seat there, wresting a flask of bourbon from his coat pocket and gulping down a few sips.  

"So what's holding you back?"

"I don't know,"  he says.  "Just waiting for the right time, I suppose."  The memory of the girl in the alleyway, her twin blood droplets racing each other down her tender throat, suddenly seizes his thoughts.   The scent so near, the punishment of the denial of his being so painful and direct.  "I had a slip up a few months ago."

"You did?  And what happened?"  Xander asks, pantomiming a need for Spike's flask.

Spike hands over the flask to him.  "Nothing.  Then.  But I can't be certain that it won't happen again.  And I don't feel comfortable asking Buffy to be my wife when she doesn't know who she's marrying."

Xander coughs from his uneasy swig of the flask and gives it back to Spike, the back of his hand drawn over his lips.  "She'll be marrying the man she loves."

Spike thinks at first that Xander's coughing spasms have prevented an accurate interpretation of what Xander has said.  But then he sees the smile.  And the wink.  And for once the outsider is embraced by someone on the inside, other than Buffy.  

The organist begins _Sheep May Safely Graze. _

_ "Oh God,"  Xander says, eyes wide._

Something in him, rebelliously so, forces Spike to ask, "Are you ready?"

Xander makes two twin fists and replies, "I'm ready."

Spike is standing at the front of the church now, the ivory-robed minister joining him and Xander as they wait for the procession.  There is Tara, looking impossibly gorgeous in her sea foam green gown.  Willow follows her, a radiant witch of a girl, her crown of red hair looking as a rich and fascinating fire.  And then behind her, someone so gorgeous for many minutes Spike has to tell himself, that's my girl.

Sure, he saw her when she was fully dressed in their bedroom, after he had to pull her panties up her legs because reaching down has become an impossibility to her.  He saw her wrestle with the gown until her head popped out, flushed and glorious from the exertion.  She smoothed the gown over her heavy girth and he looked at her then and thought she looked tired and frail.  But now…

She looks utterly amazing in triumph.

She walks down the aisle, a stunning smile gifting all those who turn to see her as she passes.  She holds her bouquet before her giant bosom and walks as though she has temporarily forgotten what is it is to feel the burden of her nine months' pregnancy on her slight figure.  What's more, she looks at Spike and he feels as though he's looking at her for the first time and finds yet another reason to fall in love with this strong and beautiful young woman.

In the rehearsal, he was instructed to turn towards the bride and groom, but he cannot physically tear his gaze away from his lovely girl, bewitching him eight feet away in her amplified form, exposed bronze skin flowing over her bones like an endless stream of delicious caramel.  He wants to lick her head to toe.

Reverend Estey begins, lifting his hands over the soon-to-be husband and wife.  "Tonight we gather here to bear witness to the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony.  The sanctity of marriage is not something to be taken lightly.  I am certain that Anya and Alexander have searched their hearts many times up until this moment to make certain this is where they want to be.  This is where they want to be for all eternity."

I want to be with you for all of eternity,  Spike says to himself, still looking at Buffy.  She stares back at him, her green eyed gaze making a B-line towards his heart.  In her stare, it appears that her thoughts are mirroring his own.

 "I have been privileged to talk with both Xander and Anya in the past few weeks.  I know of the terrible struggles they have endured to get here.  And yet, here they are, strong in their commitment to each other.  God looks down this evening and smiles that two of his creatures have met and are going to be fruitful in their ways."

My little fertile crescent, Spike says to himself, still holding Buffy in his watch.  

Just now, he sees Buffy's elated expression change into one of deep shock.  She bends slightly, bracing her hand against the bottom of her belly, as though trying to keep the baby in until she can mouth to her lover, "My water broke!"

"What?"  Spike asks, immediately making his way over to Buffy, just in time for her to slump into his arms.  

She looks up at him, terrified.  "My water broke,"  she says again.

From what he has read and from what Dr. Hemphill told him, after the water breaks, there's no way back.  This is it.

All at once it's as though a flaming arrow has been fired against the altar.  The congregation erupts in a shared shout of concern.  The guests in the back rise from their seats, straining for a better look at the turn of events on the dais.  The whole church is vibrating now with sharp whispers of speculation.

Giles, at the arm of the flustered and now clearly upstaged bride, addresses the crowd,  "It's all right!  It's all under control.  Just stay calm."   But then he sees his charge, so consumed in what seems an otherworldly pain.  She is now down on the floor, her vampire lover's arms enveloping her.

"Buffy, sweetheart…we have to get you to hospital,"  Spike says.

"No!"  she protests.  "I promised."

"Is she having the baby here?  This is supposed to be my day!"  Anya frets, near tears, hands on hips.

"I'll be fine,"  Buffy says, assuring the collage of concerned faces around her.  

"Buffy, you're in labor,"  Spike says.

"I'll make it,"  she says.  "They just have to make it quick."

Spike lifts his gaze to the minister.  "You heard the girl.  Say your piece.  And get it over with!"

At the vampire's urging, the minister sputters, "Do you, Alexander, take thee, Anya, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward---

A searing pain courses its way through Buffy's body and she convulses in Spike's arms.  

"Yes, God, he does!"  Spike answers for Xander.  "If she hasn't sodding driven him off by now, they're going to be together forever.  Proclaim them man and wife already!"

"Spike, this is bad,"  Buffy says.  And Spike doesn't know if she means that he's handling things badly or if her pains are too intense.  If she is talking about the pains they are coming far too quickly together and far too soon.

Spike looks apologetically at the minister and then at Xander as he sweeps Buffy into his arms.  "Sorry.  Emergency here.  Girlfriend is having a baby.  Our baby."  As he walks off the dais, he tosses the velvet box which contains Anya's gold wedding band into Giles' hands.  "Rupert, you can take care of the rest.  I have got to get Buffy to hospital."

Spike carries his ladylove up the aisle, all the while telling people on either side, "She's having my baby.  SHE'S having MY baby."

In the parking lot, Buffy nuzzles her head against Spike's shoulder, crying softly.  "I didn't do what I said I was going to do,"  she sobs.

"Sweetheart, you can always get a note from home."

In the soft beige and rose hues of the labor room, the last best hope for humanity is lying in a thin, cotton gown against a raised hospital bed, a fetal heart monitor strapped against her belly.  The attending nurse emerges from Buffy's thighs, a look of disbelief on her face.

"When did you feel your first pain?"  the nurse asks.

"About seven thirty,"  Buffy says.

"And were there any more after that?"

"A few.  But I thought they were those Braxton-Hicky pains.  Why?"

"You're at ten centimeters,"  the nurse says.

"Ten!  Ten?  That can't be!"  Buffy says.

"Well, I'm afraid it is.  You're fully effaced and dilated."

 "But what if…what if I have one of those Spinal Tap type cervixes that goes to eleven instead of ten?"

"Not possible,"  the nurse says, patting her thigh.  "I'll go page Dr. Hemphill."

Spike has just barely laid his tuxedo jacket across the easy chair when he hears the news.  Dawn was thinking about going home to change into jeans and a tee shirt and to retrieve the picture of their mother Buffy requested as her focal point.

All three are still in the aftermath of the announcement.  The littlest Scooby is impatient for his debut.  And as Spike and Dawn come to the understanding that a baby is going to be born and soon, Buffy begins to huff through a particularly violent contraction.

Spike remembers delivering kicks and punches to her in years before and never did he hear her make a sound even remotely close to the one he is hearing now.  This is something from the depths of her being, a howl from centuries before she was born, the primal scream of her warrior soul.  

She lies back against her pillows, breathless, balling the fitted sheet up in her hands.  She grabs for the railing around her bed and then for Spike's hand, finally settling on the less breakable sheets.  Again, another pain rips through her and she greets it with a rising, "Oh, oh, OH!"

Spike watches her face, twisted in agony, and he feels his own innards being turned inside out.  He leans close to her, patting her hair down, whispering against her temple, "Don't worry, love.  It will all be over soon."  He casts an eye over at fretful, youthful Dawn who is so wound up with concern and anguish she is nearly immobile. "You all right, Bit?"

"Yeah,"  she says in a hollow voice as she peers down at her sister's moaning, restless form.  "It's just hard…you know."

"I know, Bit.  I know.  But think of it like this.  When it's all said and done, there's going to be a new addition to the family and you'll be one up on the totem pole,"  he says with a smile as he continues to stroke Buffy's hair.

She smiles back at him and reaches down to kiss her sister's perspiring forehead.  

When Dr. Hemphill arrives, Buffy's contractions are a minute apart. 

"So I hear we're all set to meet this little guy who's been messing with your figure and your appetite for nine months,"  Dr. Hemphill says cheerily.

"Unh,"  is Buffy's reply as she rails against the pain of another contraction.

"OK,"  Dr. Hemphill says, her gray eyes peering over her paper mask at Spike and Dawn.  "Coaches, you know what to do, right?"

"Right,"  they reply in unison.

Dr. Hemphill hears the unsteadiness in their response and reminds them, "She needs to draw in a breath and count to ten.  Then let it out.  You can help with the counting.  And with keeping her legs apart."

Given their instructions, Dawn and Spike position themselves on either side of Buffy, hands braced against her powerful thighs.

Her next contraction hits.

"One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten…"  Dawn and Spike count.

"Let it out,"  Dr. Hemphill says, her own breathing pulsing her paper mask against her nose.

Buffy exhales and pulls in another breath.  Again Dawn and Spike count.  One, two, three…

"Good pushing, Buffy!"  Dr. Hemphill encourages.  "Keep on, keep on."

Buffy draws on another breath, boring her chin deep into her chest as Dawn and Spike count.  One, two, three…

"OK, Buffy.  You're going to feel a slight burning sensation as the baby's head is crowning,"  Dr. Hemphill warns.

Again Buffy inhales and presses her hands against the bed.  Spike and Dawn are mindful of her thighs, and now they are cognizant of what looks like a giant peach pit emerging from her depths.

"Oh my God!  I see its head!  I see the baby's head!"  Dawn exclaims brightly.

 "One more push!"  Dr. Hemphill urges.

Buffy grunts, a congestion of blue veins mapping the manifestations of her torture on either side of her forehead.

"OK, you can stop pushing,"  Dr. Hemphill says.

Dr. Hemphill is twisting in her hands a grape-colored ball, the size of a wrestler's fist.  But now, a shoulder shows itself.  And then another.  And now there is a child, covered from head to toe in the color and consistency of berried jam.

"And it's a boy!"  Dr.  Hemphill decries.

  Wet, wrinkled, protesting daylight, the being has all the grace and gorgeousness of a weathered garden gnome.  On Buffy's stomach now, against the still swollen domicile of the stomach the baby called home for nine months, he is all fingers and toes, all screaming madness.  Wrinkled skin creases over disbelieving eyes as the child adjusts to his first minutes seeing something other than darkness.  A nurse scrubs the baby down, revealing creamy white skin.

Spike looks down at the child, his child.  The baby, through swollen lids, stares back at him with brilliant blue eyes.  He smells the heady scent of blood and even more so the smell of Buffy recreated in this elfin form.  In the aftermath of the birth, there is much noise and confusion all around, but for a moment, he thinks he can feel his cold, dead heart trying valiantly to stir within his chest.  There is a creature in the world who has his blood and that creature is alive.   And _his_.   He reaches for the child just as he is being whisked away.

Buffy is returning to herself, propping herself up to view the goings on across the room as she finds herself draped in Spike and Dawn's arms.  The baby's weight is announced.  7 pounds, 6 ounces.  The baby's height is announced as well.  21 inches.  The baby is absolutely fine and absolutely normal.  When he is returned to his parents, he is clean and small, wrapped tight in a restrictive receiving blanket.  But they can still see his face.  For someone so anxious to be out and about in the world, the baby seems awfully nonchalant about being born.   

In Buffy's arms for the first time, the baby seems so fragile she fears she will crush him with her Slayer strength.  But when the baby is settled, she is overtaken by a wave of tenderness.  The little face is too ready for fondness.  The stretching limbs are too reminiscent of the parts that tested her womb's capacity.  

Buffy smiles, stroking the baby's face.   "Oh God, he's so beautiful…"  she says, her voice quaking with emotion.  "He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life."  She lifts her tearful face to her lover and catches him by the hand.  "Oh William, do you know what he is?"

 "A miracle?"  he asks, aching for a chance to hold his son.

"No,"  Buffy says.  "He's the perfect little us."

She passes the infant into Spike's arms.  As the baby conforms to his cradling arms, and as this new life force springs to whimpering fruition, tears course down his face in an immediate baptism over the baby's sweet head.

"He is that,"  Spike says, kissing his child and loving the warmth under his cold lips, "Hello, you.  Hello, my beautiful boy.  My sweet, beautiful child.  My little Daniel."  His body is shaking with sobs as he holds the baby as close as he can.  "Oh Buffy, thank you."

"It was as much your doing as mine,"  she says diplomatically, using some of the Kleenex that Dawn is passing to her and using herself.

"Buffy, I've seen you do some amazing things with your body over the years, but this…what you did tonight…"  He regards her with a sober stare, his eyes still pouring tears.  "I love you, Buffy.  I love you so much."

"And I love you, William."

He leans over to press a gentle kiss on Buffy's lips.  He then takes a seat beside her on the bed, one arm going around her as the other still holds the child firm.  Dawn too grabs a seat on the bed, on the other side of her sister, wrapping her arm tightly around her shoulders.

It is in this moment that the three of them come to realization that their little family is now complete.

At 11:30, Sunday morning, it is already an uncomfortable 93 degrees outside and not much cooler insider St. Catherine's Chapel.  The area is ensnared by an unseasonable and fussy late season heat wave, which the congregation chooses to fight with fluttering church bulletins and open windows.  The congregation has listened to the church choir sing, "A Mighty Fortress is Our God" and they have listened to themselves sing "Rock of Ages" and they have tithed and "glory be'ed" and now they are silent as Reverend Estey mounts the pulpit and bows his head as though bearing a crown of lead weights.

He finally lifts his head, a drip of perspiration blurring the notes in front of him.  But he is confident he can fill in the blank spaces his sweat has created.

He grips the edges of the wooden podium as he begins to speak.

"My friends, we all know that Satan, since his conception, has been trying to find ways to walk among us.  And 150 years ago, a cluster of a dozen believing souls put their faith in one of his minions and damned their descendents to hell on this very spot."

Today as the congregation was walking into the church, they knew this was coming.  The message on the board outside the church read, "Opening Old Wounds," a sure sign that their yearly reminder of the church's founding would be retold from the pulpit.  This is a story that they all know better than the story of Adam and Eve and it is verses more relevant.  This bit of unorthodox scripture tells the story of their ultimate demise, and their ultimate salvation.

"It was here that settlers used to gather in a sod and wood shack and pray for the day that they would have a real church, a handsomely built church that would accurately reflect their love for God in its architecture.  And as they were praying, a man, shorn of head and brown of robes, entered their midst.  He called himself Brother Francis.  And he told them that he would build the church they dreamed of.  If only they believed in him.

"They had no course but to believe in him.  Building materials were sparse and the congregation was poor.  He told them that he would build a grand church from the wood of the forests around them, carve the wood into splendid seraphs of wonder, like fine words.  And for forty days and forty nights he worked, without assistance, building the church we stand in today.  And when the congregation saw the work, they gasped, some so overcome they lost their senses and collapsed under the influence of the beauty shone around about them.  This was the most magnificent structure they had ever seen.  Some swore that Joseph had been the architect and as they prayed to the Blessed Virgin, Brother Francis stood before them.  He ripped off his robes to reveal a throbbing mass of red, veined skin.  His feet were cloven.  His ears, pointed.  His tail was aimed towards the heavens, but it was clear his mission came from down below."

No matter how many times they have heard this, the congregation suffers a collective shudder.  

"He proclaimed for the congregation that their souls had been taken, wrested by Satan's hand.  The church they were admiring was the work of Satan.  But as the Devil was about to take all the Believers down into Hell, the hand of God swept down and collected the Demon into his palm and put him back into the fiery depths of Hell."

The minister briefly turns ghostly pale as he peers out at the congregation.  They are all so hopeful, their lives, their souls, hinging on his every word.

"The night of Brother Francis' transformation, a vision of St. Catherine appeared to each and every one of the members of the church.  She told them that they would be saved.  That Satan would not prevail and he would be defeated.  However, he would try to make another appearance.  But his efforts would be thwarted by the sacrifice of a young woman.  'The Slayer and a demon shall combine and raise for you a savior.'

            "Today we give thanks to Buffy Summers and her child, born at 9:47 last night.  We give thanks to her lately realized sacrifice.  We give thanks to her child.  We give thanks that Our's is a forgiving God and today we praise Him.  The Word of the Lord…"

            "Thanks be to God,"  the congregation responds.

            At this time, the child is visited by the Scoobies.  Xander insists that the child be called Scrappy Doo and both mother and father are quick to insist that he not be.  Giles, Buffy knows, is searching for a tail or protuberances about the ears and finding no such deformities, he pronounces the child perfect.  No one can deny the child's parentage when viewing the skiff of blond hair across the veined scalp or the blue eyes revealed between puckered eyelids.  This is Spike's child.  

            This is the son of the Slayer and her vampire lover.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

            Spike struts down the darkened hallway to the maternity ward, bearing another bouquet of flowers and good news for Buffy.

            "The nurse is on her way with your wheels and your discharge papers.  I've got the car pulled up at the front---

            He is halted by the frozen expression on Buffy's face as she looks down at their infant, his naked, chubby arms and legs squirming.  Buffy holds the baby's terry cloth sleeper in her hands tentatively, as though she's not quite sure what the next step is.  

Spike watches her take her bottom lip under her teeth several times before he asks, "What's wrong?"

A mist of tears scums her green eyes.  "Oh, Spike.  I'm just so afraid that I'm going to pull his arms out of the socket!"  
            "You won't pull his arms out of the socket,"  he says comfortingly.  

"When I was in high school, we had this project.  We all had to take care of these eggs as though they were our children.  A-and I destroyed mine."

"Well, accidents happen."

Buffy shakes her head.  "I did it on purpose.  It was an evil egg.  They were all evil."

Spike has to laugh a little at this.  He wonders what's kept the town fathers from proposing a sign at the city limits reading,  "Welcome to the Hellmouth.  Even our eggs are evil."

"That was high school, love.  A long time ago and many Buffy's past,"  Spike says.   "And this little one isn't evil.  You don't have to worry about that.  He's all that's good in the world."  A smile dances across his glowing face as the newborn curls his tiny fist around his index finger.  "Now, come on.  Let's get him suited up.  He puts his trousers on one leg at a time just like the rest of us, only he needs us to do it for him right now.  So you, very gently, take one leg and put it in the there.  Like so.  And then the other.  Now the arms.  Gently, gently.  And you zip him up and he's all ready to go!" 

Having witnessed Spike's careful and caring handiwork in sparing their child from nakedness, Buffy has to say, "Wow.  That was great.  Where did you learn to do that?"

Spike shrugs.  "Dru used to ask me to dress her dolls.  They were all fine bisque porcelain.  Very delicate.  I had to be careful or they would break."  He sees that Buffy seems a little afraid of the information he has just relayed to her.  "Now let us never speak of this again."

"Gladly,"  she says, expelling a deep breath.

Spike lifts his son, mindful of his head, kissing his warm forehead as he ferries him over to the carrier.  Once Daniel is snug in his seat, Spike wraps his arm around Buffy, admiring the lump of flesh and blood that is, against nature, his flesh and blood.

"Come on, Sweetheart,"  he says.  "Let's take our son home."

There is an instant acknowledgement when a newborn is brought into a home that time has no meaning and sleep is just a dream.

Sleep doesn't work anymore.  Sleep is what you get when nothing else is going on.  Buffy, as the Slayer, is somewhat used to this concept, but even so, it shocks her when the veracity of her baby's tropical bird cries caw-caw her from a night's rest at hourly intervals.

On his first night home, the baby, so docile and sweet in sleep and unreadable expressions during the day, comes alive at 9:00 in the evening.  This is fine, with Dawn still studying and Buffy and Spike not even thinking about going to bed.  Buffy simply undoes the buttons on her blouse and allows the infant to feed.  He goes to sleep at her breast and she hopes that she won't hear from him again until the morning.

But the morning comes early.  11:00 pm early.  Just as Buffy is dozing.

She feeds him again, the baby tugging hungrily at her nipple as though he were famished.  He falls asleep again against her breast, and she puts him in the cradle beside her bed.

But at 2:00 in the morning, Daniel is raging again for a sip at her nipple.  She again takes the baby against her breast and as before, he slips back into sleep while nursing.  But then comes 4:00.  And not only is he hungry, but he has a little surprise for his parents in the form of a clump of seedy feces in his diaper.  Buffy removes the soiled diaper and presses it into the Diaper Genie which, on the first day, is almost full.  She has changed Daniel a dozen times and it seems she has fed him twice as much.

She feeds him again and replaces the sleeping infant in the cradle, climbing back into bed for what proves to be a two-hour nap.  At six am, Daniel is awake again and starving, his diaper saturated with both number one and number two.

            Buffy climbs back into bed, exhausted, the morning sun just hinted at behind the blinds.  She hears Dawn's door open.  She buries her head in her pillow and groans as Spike rises.

            "I'll take care of Little Bit,"  he says, pulling his jeans on.

            The second night, Daniel doesn't sleep.  Ever.  Not even for a minute.

            "Daniel, Daniel, Daniel,"  Buffy says against his forehead as she kisses him and tries to mean it, though it's hard at 2:00 in the morning to feel anything but frustration.  She taps a hand against his bottom.  "Come on, sweetie.  I've fed you, I've changed you.  What else do you want?"  The baby lets out another squall of displeasure and Buffy looks to Spike to turn the tide.  "Help?"

            Spike slips out from the covers and takes the baby in his arms, shushing and calming the infant with the rapture of his deep British-accented assuredness.  "Come now, Daniel.  Mummy needs her rest.  She has a very important job, love.  She has to save the world, time and time again.  And that's not as easy as it sounds.  So she needs her rest.  And so does Daddy, because he has to help her.  Yeah, he does."  He kisses the baby gently above his eyebrow and then takes him on a walk-about around the perimeters of the bedroom.

After about a half an hour of marching he decides that a change of scenery might be what the baby needs.

"I think I know what you're problem is.  Same as mine, most likely.  You can't get enough of Mummy,"  Spike theorizes as he carries Daniel into the living room.  He settles down gently on the chair in front of the TV and picks up the remote.  Daniel is still shrieking against his shoulder as Spike surfs through the hodge podge of infomercials and grade-B Mickey Rourke movies that characterize much of late night TV.  "But your Daddy's quite an interesting bloke too.  I've lived a lot of years, have seen a lot of things, I've traveled loads.  Someday when you can actually understand the Queen's English, I'll tell you all about myself.  Well, maybe not _all.  But, right now, I think it's about time I introduce you to an old friend of mine named Colonel Hogan.  You were almost his namesake so I think it's only fitting that you should become acquainted, even if you're not the most sociable little fella right now,"  he says._

            At 5:00, Daniel's cries have tapered off to a few staccato blasts here and there, but he is still very much awake.  Spike is beginning to nod off when Dawn's door clicks open and she tiptoes out into the hall.

            Her touch startles him at first.  In his near drowse, he has convinced himself that Victoria Principal is asking him to sample her new and improved eye cream.

            "You want me to take over for a while?"  Dawn asks.  "I have to be at school in a couple hours anyway and I've still got a French quiz to study for.  Daniel can keep me company while I cram."

            "Oh, all right,"  Spike says, wiping his tired and strained eyes.  "I think he's just about ready for beddy-bye.  But then again, I thought that two hours ago."

            Caring for the baby in shifts seems to be the way to go for the first few nights and, at least temporarily, keeps the trio from descending into a collective madness.  What they very quickly come to know is that the barely animated and lethargic baby who exists during the daytime has a completely separate personality at night.  He is feral and agitated as soon as the sun sets.  This his harried and thoroughly depleted parents can only blame on themselves.

            One night, as most of the neighbors are switching off their TV's and bedside table lamps, Spike swings on his black duster and heads for the door.

"Wait, where are you going?" Buffy asks as she rocks Daniel back and forth in her arms.

            "Patrol,"  he says, as though she should know.

            "B-but you said you wouldn't be doing that for a while!"

            "And it's _been a while,"  he says, checking the supply of stakes in the chest at the foot of the bed.  He can sense Buffy pouting behind his back.  After collecting a suitable store of pointy sticks for the night's cemetery jaunt, he turns to her and cups her chin.  "Come on, love.  You can't expect Giles and the rest to handle patrol forever.  You know they're not as good at making a clean sweep.  Not as careful about getting all the crumbs up.  I wouldn't be surprised to find a hundred head of vampires lurking about tonight."_

            "Then you should have someone with you,"  she says.  "Why don't you call Xander---

            He cuts her off with a frown of disapproval.  "You know I don't work well with others, love.  Especially others like him."

            "Then I can ask Dawn to look after Daniel and I can go with you,"  she said hopefully.

            "Now, now, Buffy.  You know what the doc said.  You should wait a full---

            "Six weeks after the delivery before resuming normal activities.  I _know that,"  she says, rolling her eyes.  "But I heal faster than other people.  You saw how shocked the doctor was when she went to suture my episiotomy and it was already closing by itself.  And I stopped bleeding two days ago."_

            He knows this and he couldn't be more relieved.  Lying beside her with that constant drip of warm and fragrant blood was making him feel a little like someone sworn off caffeine finding himself in bed with a cappuccino machine every night.

            He clicks his tongue.  "I still say you should do as the doc says.  You'll be tip-toeing through the tombstones soon enough and you'll probably miss this time."

            "Oh, yay."  She looks down at her wide-eyed infant who seems content to just look around at this hour.  She thinks about putting him in his cradle but she knows the minute she does, "Waaaahhhhh!"  Though she is exhausted and even speaking words is a bit taxing, she starts to laugh.

            "Why the giggles, love?"  he asks.

            "Oh, it's just that, here I am missing Patrol.  I've actually had someone tell me that I can't do my job for a while and when I was in High School that's all that I wanted.  A normal life, without having to worry about some big, bad evil thing sticking his hand in the Hellmouth and pulling out more big, bad evil things."

            "Enjoy it while it lasts, then,"  Spike says," kissing her on her forehead before bussing Daniel on his.  

Daniel yawns, his lolling tongue spackled with the white dot residue of Buffy's breast milk.  He scrunches up his face and she knows what's about to happen.  It starts out as just a little whimper before rising to a spine-tingling squeal.  She puts the baby's head on her shoulder and rubs his back softly as he fills her ears with the first few notes of his nightly Concert for the Weary and Bone-Tired.  "I'm trying to,"  she replies at length, long after Spike has left the room.

            Buffy and Spike have both read over and over that until a child is aware that night is the time for rest, parents should just sleep when the baby does.  But with Daniel catching most of his Z's during the day, that doesn't leave a lot of time for other things.

            One day, Buffy is indulging in a quick nap after lunch when she is suddenly and rudely awakened by Spike loudly opening and closing the dresser drawers.  His black tee shirt is draped over his naked shoulder and there is the distinct odor of sour milk wafting through the air.

            "There's no blood in the fridge,"  he says.

            "So you think you're going to find it in the chest of drawers?"  she asks.

            "No.  I'm just saying, is all.  I'm looking for a clean shirt.  I thought Daniel just needed to get rid of a little gas, but there was more to it, I found out, when I burped him,"  he says before reaching the bottom drawer and realizing that there are no clean shirts.  He swivels around, hands on hips.  "You haven't done the wash?"

            "And I would have time to do that…when?"  she asks.

            "When you usually do it."

            "Spike, since the baby's been home, I haven't had the time to do any of the things I usually do!  What's wrong with your arms?"

            Spike makes a quick assessment of his limbs.  "Nothing.  Why?  Do they look different or something?"

            She rolls her eyes.  "I'm only saying that you could take the dirty clothes down to the laundry once in a while."

            "You yelled at me the last time I washed clothes.  Said I put too much fabric softener in your knickers and they made you all itchy."

            "Well, that was your cue to say, 'Memo to self.  Less fabric softener next time."

            "So you want me to do the laundry now?"  he asks.

She angrily strips back the covers and leaps out of the bed.  "What I want is…"  Standing in the middle of the room, she silently counts to ten before wresting the soiled garment from Spike's shoulder.   "Here.  Give me the damn shirt.  I'll rinse it out in the sink. "  Before closing the door to the bathroom, he hears her off-handedly remark, "Maybe you should look into finding your old wheelchair since you seem to be handicapable again."

            In this period of adjustment, barbed words do tend to crop up now and then when the nights are long and sleepless and there doesn't seem to be a solution in sight to Daniel's eruptions of volcanic weeping.  

A few nights later, Spike returns from his patrol quite late.  It's after 2:00 am when he strolls over the threshold.  

            The minute he enters, Buffy shoves Daniel into his arms.

            "Take your son!"  she orders.

            "What?"  he asks, wanting nothing more than to collapse onto the sofa.

            "Take your son!  Take your son!  Take your son!"  she screams.

            He sighs and takes Daniel from Buffy's arms.  "What's been going on?"

            "Everything.  Everything, everything!"

            Because Buffy is saying her words in triplicate, it seems much more has been going on than usual, or just too much of the usual for too long a period.

            Dawn emerges from the kitchen, looking as though she has just gone ten rounds with Lenox Lewis in Memphis.  She puts a bottle of Buffy's expressed milk in Spike's hands.  "It's your turn,"  she says to Spike.  "I'm done.  And if having a baby is anything like this for me, menopause can't come soon enough."  As she is about to enter her bedroom, she says over her shoulder, "And menopause happens about fifteen years from now, right?"

            "Only if you're lucky," Buffy glowers.

            Spike holds back for a few moments, not knowing whether he should go to her or not when he knows that in this post-partam time she can go either way at any given moment.  He watches her pace around the room, arms akimbo, her exaggerated exhalations blowing her hair from her forehead.  She settles into a non-threatening stance in the middle of the room, but Spike doesn't move to comfort her.  There's still a bit of electricity in the air that tells him sparks might fly if he touches her.  Her emotions, which seem to be just a fraction of a millimeter below her skin these days, take a sudden dramatic turn and she convulses in a sob.  "Nobody ever tells you how hard this is going to be."

            He wants to tell her she is wrong, but he knows better.  For her entire pregnancy she was told, either by strangers on the street who just wanted to touch her belly or by the strangers who wrote the books she so voraciously read one after the other, that life with a newborn is never easy.  She knows this, but seems to have conveniently forgotten it in the influx of this new reality around her.

            "They tell you life is going to be different,"  she continues.  "But they don't tell you _how different it's going to be.  It just seems…it just seems like to __me, anyway, that…And I HATE myself for even thinking this, but…"  She purses her lips before howling out another sob of hopeless frustration.  "Maybe this was a mistake."_

            "Oh, now, sweetheart---

            She throws up a hand in protest.  "No!  I mean it!  I was just sitting here tonight with Daniel screaming at me for two hours and it was like he was saying to me, 'Why can't you be better at this?'  I'm the Slayer, for God's sake!  I go up against demons five times my size on a nightly basis and here I've got this little thing that I don't know what to do with.  I just don't know what to do with him, Spike!"  She hurls herself onto the sofa and lets her head fall onto one of the throw pillows.

            For a minute all Spike can do is stand there and watch her because he senses that she does not want him to do anything else.  For some reason she has convinced herself that she is alone in this, though the father stands there holding their child, who is now silent and maybe even a little concerned about his mother's emotional outburst.

All at once Spike thinks he knows what the problem is.  And when he really does put some thought into what Buffy is going through, he almost feels like smacking himself for overlooking the obvious.

            He takes a seat beside her warily.  He doesn't touch her right away, though.  Her shoulders heave in great waves of motion against the pillow she clutches and instead of diminishing, the volume of her sobs seems to be growing louder. He lays the pretzel twist of warm, languid flesh on his lap, the baby's head nestled between his knees.  The baby at first protests the new location, but then gamely tries to adjust.  Spike looks down at his mewling infant and traces the soft down of the child's barely there eyebrows.  He trails the callused pads of his thumbs down either side of the baby's chubby cheeks.    He circles the shells of the baby's ears with his index fingers.  Just now, the baby turns his head down, pressing his face against Spike's palm, the latest touch provoking an almost bashful look from the child.

            "Ah, there it is.  Right there,"  Spike says with a victorious smile.  "Buffy, look.  I want to show you what he does when you touch his ears."  She remains facedown on the pillow, completely oblivious to him.  "Really, Buffy.  Look.  This is quite amazing."

            Finally she does lift her head and through bleary eyes, she tries to focus on her baby's face.  After a couple squidgying wipes of her hand, she can see a little better.  A little flutter of excitement begins to rail against her dampening self-pity.

            "It looks like he's…smiling,"  she says.

            "Yeah.  A bit.  I was holding him---I think it was the day before yesterday---and I thought I saw him smile.  But I couldn't remember what made him do it.  But it's his ears.  His ears are really sensitive, it seems.  Look."  He draws his finger down the slope of the baby's earlobe and once again, Daniel scrunches his head against his shoulder.  His rosy lips curl in a way that would be barely perceptible to anyone else except the two people who have been mentally cataloging everything he has done since birth.

"But he's not really supposed to be doing that for another month or so,"  she says in staggering wonder. 

"Doesn't surprise me.  The men of my line have always been quick studies."  He lifts the baby into his arms, pressing his forehead gently against the baby's delicate cranium.  He turns an eye towards Buffy and grins.  "I had to wait a long time before you'd smile at me."

"Well, eventually when I stopped fighting you I realized that---  She stops herself right there.  All of a sudden she knows with breathless intuition the wisdom her lover is ever so cleverly trying to impart to her, short of banging her upside the head with a frying pan.  "Oh,"  she says very simply.  "So that's what it is.  I've been trying to _fight Daniel."_

"Mmm hmm,"  he answers while the baby catches him by the jaw with his tiny starfish of a hand.

Her eyes widen.  "I mean, that's how I do things.  I-I find out what it is I'm up against and I fight it."  She takes her head in her hands.  "Oh God!  I _am a terrible mother!"  _

"No, you're just too good of a Slayer is all."

"How am I ever going to shut off my instincts long enough to get this child to adulthood?  If I keep trying to fight him---

Spike covers her hand with his.  "Just finish what you were saying before, love.  Eventually when you stopped fighting me you realized that…"

            She returns a squeeze to his hand, smoothing her thumb against the stem of his own thumb.  "I realized that I loved you."  

"Exactly,"  he says.  He hands the baby over to her, keeping a hand pressed firmly against the child's bottom.   He drops his jaw to rest on her shoulder and leans his head against her neck.  "When he was born, and everyone was saying that he looked just like me, I wasn't just flattered.  It was like I was being given a second chance."  He swallows so hard his head trembles slightly afterward.  "He's not going to make the same mistakes I've made.  I'm going to be absolutely certain of that.  He's going to be the sort I couldn't be because I was too weak and cowardly.  He's going to be me, only without the _being me."  _

Buffy is about to make a comment about how she hopes Daniel won't have the same predilection for insane vampire whores in alleyways, but she stops herself, her comment held in a brief smile that broadens when she sees the light in Spike's face as his finger is caught once again by Daniel's tight fisted hug.

"He's got my heart in that tiny palm of his,"  he says in a love-dappled voice.   "I can feel him squeezing it every time he closes his fingers."

Buffy can feel that same constriction too around her heart just when she looks into the baby's face, but never more keenly than she does now.  And there is a warming calm spilling its contents deep inside of her as she holds both her lover and her child close to her.  She is happily at peace, happily seeing through the unclouded vision her lover is always able to give her when her perspective is fogged by uncertainty.  

After all this time, he is always ready with the there, there pats on the back whenever she needs one.  

Buffy is sorting through the basket of freshly cleaned laundry on the sofa, folding napkin-sized onesies and sleepers against her chest while Spike is nearly nodding on the chair in front of the TV, the remote pinned against his tee shirted torso.  Dawn comes into the room, a faded denim jacket thrown over her forearm.  She is wearing a white tank top and long, flowing floral shirt that swirls above her freshly painted toenails.

"Well, I'm off,"  she announces casually as she strides over to the door.

"And where exactly as you off to?"  Buffy asks.

She runs her fingers through her dark tresses.  "Just out.  I'm meeting Travis and Amelia and Greg at the coffee shop."

"Travis isn't picking you up?" 

"No.  It's just a show-up type thing.  You remember those kinds of dates, don't you?"

"Yes, I think I remember those.  Only we usually met up at the Bronze."

"The Bronze?  That place is so over, Buffy.  I mean, I know you work there and all, but The Bronze is such a dive.  That troll should come back and wreck the place again."

Buffy nods and continues to dig through the drifts of Ivory Snow laundered clothing, finding her favorite lavender thong clinging to Daniel's baby blue sleeper.

Dawn resumes her trek to the door.  As she reaches for the doorknob, her fingers dance over the metal as though it were glowing with white heat.  She stands there, not even attempting to open the door, her forehead pressed against the wood.

"Something wrong, Dawn?"  Buffy asks.

"No,"  she says firmly.  Then she turns, her forehead creased with worry lines.  "Well, maybe."

"Maybe?"  

She vigorously rubs the back of her head and shifts her weight nervously from leg to leg.  "That's just it.  I don't know.  It's just that…it's just that…"

"Can you be a little clearer, Dawn?  I'm not Miss Cleo, you know."

"Well, Travis had been kind of…odd lately.  Not acting like himself."

"You mean he hasn't been acting the part of the milquetoast poof?"  Spike sniggers.  "Someone ring Mulder and Scully.  We might have one of those alien walk-in cases on our hands."

Dawn comes to rest on the arm of the sofa, sighing deeply as she fusses with the buttons on the front of her jacket.   "I dunno.  He's just been acting so strange about the baby.  I mean, whenever I even attempt to talk about Daniel, he clams up and changes the subject.  I've e-mailed him pix of the baby and he never looks at them.  He says he's afraid of viruses so he's not opening any attachments these days."

"Well, honey, he is a teenaged boy.  They're not exactly the oo'ing and aw'ing type over babies,"  Buffy says, glancing over at her sleeping child, nestled safely in his carrier.

"Yeah, but it's like whenever I talk about Daniel he gets all mad.  He even yelled at me the other day at school.  'Dawn, I'm sick of hearing about Daniel!  It's not like he's _your baby!'"_

Spike wheels his head around.  "He yelled at you?"

Dawn nods.  "Definite yellage.  And right at the beginning of geometry.  That class is hell enough without---

Spike rises to his feet and tosses the remote into the abandoned chair.  "I'm going with you."

"What?"  Dawn asks, mouth wide open.

"I'm going with you because I'm going to have to kick his Abercrombie and Fitch addicted ass and let him know that NOBODY yells at---

"Whoa, Spike,"  Dawn says, bringing her hands up in front on her.  "Take it easy.  I let him know, in not so many words, that I didn't appreciate him talking to me in that tone and he backed off and apologized.  I'm over it now."

Spike's shoulders sag.  "You're sure?"

"Yeah.  It was no biggie."

Spike approaches Dawn, his hand going to the curve of her defiant chin, his other hand smoothing her dark hair.  "You never let any boy treat you anything less than the goddess you are, you hear me?"

Dawn smiles and captures one of his hands in hers.  "I won't,"  she says, blushing slightly.

He chucks her on the chin.  "I say this because big sis here has a history of letting hulking brutes unworthy of her affections break her heart all to pieces."

"Um… 'big sis' here heard that,"  Buffy says, placing another onesie into the delicate pyramid of folded laundry.

Spike shifts the muscles in his jaw and hoods his bright blue stare in a lingering blink.  "Well, it's true."

"Hmm…hulking brutes.  Would you be referring to the one who applauded my slaying of one of his minions and then announced that on a Saturday he would kill me?"

"That hulking brute was more than worthy of your affections,"  Spike grins.  He struts, cat-like, over to Buffy and peels the static-cling charged sock from her shirt before bringing her to him, cupping the bounty of her post-pregnancy bottom with his hands.  "That hulking brute is probably the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Oh, so he thinks,"  she smiles, desire flooding her as his growing excitement pulsates against her thigh.

"You know that's true,"  Spike says, teasing her lips with the point of his tongue.

Her head is giddy with a sudden gush of lusty thoughts.  "Say it's true.  Say I do want to dance."

"Beneath me?"  he whispers seductively into her ear.  

"OK, you guys are getting mushy,"  Dawn says, throwing up her arms.  "I'm outta here."

Buffy and Spike mumble a goodbye, still locked in each other's eyes.

Buffy brings Spike's head closer to hers, kissing him deeply, her tongue nearly glancing the aged tonsils at the back of his throat.  An errant hand scampers up the flesh of her recovering belly, admiring the suppleness of soft skin that quivers under his touch.  In time, his hand captures the swell of one fully rounded breast, finding the nipple fully erect and dripping with milk.

 "Mmm, honey, remember when we were talking about resuming normal activities after six weeks?"  Buffy asks, shuddering at the touch of his hand down her back.

"Yes?"

"Well, being beneath you would fall under the umbrella category of things to avoid---

"For six weeks after delivery.  I know,"  he says, his chin dropping in defeat to his chest.  

"Aw, honey,"  she says, pulling her fingers through his hair.  "I guess there was a time when Dawn left the apartment, we'd say to ourselves, 'Alone at last.'"  She takes a quick peek at the sleeping infant and sighs.  "But I guess we'll never be alone at last ever again.  Or at least until Daniel is Dawn's age."

"That's a long time to wait to be alone at last,"  Spike pouts, his hands drifting down her backside once again.

Buffy places her lips squarely on his, drinking in the plushness of his bottom lip with the scrape of her teeth.  He purrs in pleasure as she sinks a sinister incisor into his delicate flesh.

"We could make out a little,"  she suggests in a whisper against his mouth.

"Sweetheart, it's been so long since we've made out, I'm afraid a little won't be enough,"  he says, pressing his hips against hers.

From the coffee table, Daniel is emitting sounds signaling his nap is over and he is hungry.

Buffy groans against Spike's parted lips.  "One night beneath you would be good."

"Definitely,"  Spike answers, full of groans himself.  

Buffy tears herself away from his clutches and heads over to the newly awakened Daniel.  With the efficiency of a long-time factory worker, she unbuttons her blouse until her right breast is exposed and the child fuses his mouth with the swollen gland.  

"But this is good too,"  Buffy smiles as Daniel begins to make the tiny coos she has come to interpret as signs of satisfaction.

 "Yes it is,"  Spike says, sitting down beside Buffy, watching the baby drawing Buffy's nipple further and further into his mouth, until the areola disappears under the rose colored flesh of the baby's lips.  "So until he's Dawn's age, eh?"

"Well, maybe not that long,"  she says, adjusting the baby's weight in her arms. "Anyway, I don't even want to think about Daniel being sixteen.  He's growing so fast as it is.  He's not even sixteen _days old and some of his sleepers are getting a little snug already."_

"Is that right?"

She nods.  "I can't believe it either."

"That's my boy,"  Spike says, bending to kiss Daniel.

She skims her hand across the soft locks of hair covering the baby's veined scalp.  "Yep.  He is that.  Though I shudder to think what the world is going to be like with two of you running around."

He smiles.  "It'll be twice as interesting as it is now, I assure you."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The bed is quaking beneath her.  This is the first thing Buffy realizes when she wakes from a deep sleep as the clock by her bed ticks off the five minutes before seven.  But this time her boyfriend is not locked into a nightmare.  Instead, the nightmare is all around them.  

The earth is coming apart.

On the tilt-a-whirl her floor has become in this decidedly rude awakening, Buffy trudges over to the cradle as though making her way through a snowdrift.   Securing her child, she yells for Spike to go get Dawn, but as the words leave her mouth, she sees Spike coming through the door with her sister firmly in his arms.

Spike reaches for Buffy and folds her to him.  He braces himself against the doorframe, with Dawn and Buffy clinging to him, as the quake tears apart their lives before their eyes.

Objects are flying off shelves, crashing onto the floor, soaring to opposite corners of the room so quickly, with such utter arbitrariness, it's as though some inner earth god is out for a wilding.  The mattress they have just vacated holds on bravely for a few brief moments before slipping to the floor like a graceful white sloop surrendering to a storm.  The baby's cradle dances in a half-figure eight across the floor, sidling at last up against Buffy's mirrored vanity.  Buffy's perfume bottles leap one by one onto the floor, breaking and soaking the floor in a bittersweet rain shower.  

Elsewhere in the apartment, more unseen, and from the sounds of things, more violent destruction is taking place.  Inside the kitchen dishes are pounding to the floor, no doubt the ones still stacked in the strainer because Buffy was just too tired to put them away last night.  Something large and heavy falls with a resounding thud in the living room.  Is it the TV?  The curio cabinet?  The mantle piece Buffy knows was not so much nailed to the wall as it was pasted with Elmer's School Glue?  From down the hall, there is a groan and a thunk from Dawn's room.  Dawn gasps and holds on tighter to Spike whose glowering visage shows nothing except how much he is raging to wrap his hands around the throat of this invisible force and kill it.

At last, the shaking begins to subside.  With one last show of force, the earth's movements select a few of Buffy's heftier college texts from her bookshelf and send them to the floor like poorly arranged dominos.  At first it is difficult to tell whether or not the quake is over.  The curtains by the window are still swaying.  It takes Buffy several minutes to realize that it is the wind coming through the window and Southern California's unique way of waking its residences is all a memory laid out in a mosaic of smashed belongings.

By the clock's ticking, the whole thing has lasted about three minutes.

Buffy is still in Spike's arms and she finds him panting.  She has often wondered why he does this when he doesn't have to.  Dawn is still clutching him, her face a pale moon, her eyes flickering with fear.  

"Is everyone all right?"  Spike asks, above the din of the sirens and car alarms coming from outside.

"Yeah,"  Buffy says in a hoarse whisper as she untangles herself delicately from Spike's embrace.

"The baby?"  he asks.

"Sleeping like one,"  she wonders, passing a hand across his soft velvety forehead.  Daniel furrows his brow a few times, yawns and flexes his tiny fingers against his cheek, but he quickly settles back into a deep, expressionless drowse.  

Dawn is surveying the damage in her sister's room and suddenly is aware that hers is just down the hall and was just as vulnerable.  "Oh, God!"  she mutters as she ducks under the archway of Spike's arm and dashes for the ruined sanctuary of bedroom.  "Oh, my God!  Oh, my God!"  she shrieks once she is there.

Buffy is looking with detachment at her surroundings, observing what's there and what was there before and what's just gone.  Her piggy bank bleeds tip money from the neck onto the carpeted floor.  She sees Mr. Gordo pinned helplessly under the weight of Maggie Walsh's freshman psych book.  Her bureau mirror is cracked and when she looks into it, she sees herself as though her image has been transferred onto a frame of ruined film.

When Spike touches her shoulder, she almost cries out.  

Wincing from her flinch, Spike stands back in bewilderment.  

"Love?"  is all he says.

She bends towards her beloved stuffed pig and frees him from his confinement, tossing the book aside as though it were a biohazard.   Taking Mr. Gordo in her free hand, she rubs the stuffed toy's worn and pilled face against her own.

Strong hands go against her shoulders, shoving her back into reality.  Her eyes meet a tempestuous blue stare.

"Darling, are you all right?"  Spike asks.

She nods, hearing a cry that would have sent her hurtling over tall buildings in a single bound a year before.  Down the hall, she can hear Dawn sobbing.  "Go to Dawn,"  she says.

"Buffy---

"Go to Dawn,"  she instructs again, sliding a hand down his forearm.  "Please."

To her relief, he does and she is left alone.  She can hear Dawn saying, "It's all gone!  It's all gone!" and Spike's murmurs of assurance that all is not gone.  They are all still alive.  

And there is one in her arms who always comes alive at night and who always spoils her sleep at least ten, fifteen times a night.  In the eight hours that have led up to this great awakening he has slept and is sleeping still.  Buffy looks down at her sleeping infant, so completely unaware of what has gone on this morning, so seemingly content a shiver sprints down her spine and she expels a brief, "Oh."

  It is the first time Daniel has slept through the night.

Buffy enters the Magic Box, stray hairs catching in her mouth, baby in tow, colorful diaper bag clutched under her arm.

"We got here as soon as we could,"  Buffy says, wiping her wrist across her perspiring forehead as she approaches the troubled roundtable of Xander, Giles, Willow and Tara.

"And your boyfriend-cum-combustible during daylight hours?"  Xander asks.

"He's on his way,"  Buffy says, turning just in time to see Spike barreling through the door, his blanket smoldering but not quite on fire.  He whips the blanket away from his leather-clad form and dashes in as though seeking shelter from a sudden downpour.

"Hello all,"  Spike says.  

The "all" he is addressing nod a general acknowledgement.  Before them is a myriad of opened texts, some so old the mildew is perfuming the room in an aged incense.  

Buffy sets the baby's carrier down gingerly on the table as Spike sidles up beside her and takes his own seat, straddling the chair rebelliously as he makes sure that Daniel's Nuk is plugged securely into the baby's mouth.

"We had to bring the baby with us,"  Buffy apologizes.  "Dawn just had to go see Travis and after all she's been through this morning…"  she trails off.

From behind the counter, Anya is sobbing as she finds another loss.  "Oh, God!  Not my imported wolf bane from Lithuania!"

Buffy is shamed when she realizes she was too caught up in her own circumstance to realize that all around her, the previously perfectly aligned shelves are now at an angle and most of their contents have been pushed onto the floor.  Under her sandled foot, she smashes, quite by accident, a vial of precious mummy extract.

"We just have to buy a new TV.  Everything else is OK, just kind of…moved.  Except for a lot of mugs, some of Mom's Fiestaware, my perfume, and Dawn's sea shells from her Dad visitations.  She's been collecting them in a mayonnaise jar since the divorce,"  Buffy says, bending to collect what she can of the glass vial.

Willow and Tara clash loving shoulders.  "We lost a couple glass orbs and an antique wishing urn.  There are only two left in the whole world,"  Willow laments.

"We just lost a sugar bowl, my autographed picture of Timothy Dalton, and some bad wedding gifts,"  Xander says.

"I loved that juicer!"  Anya cries, still trying to salvage the wolf bane.  "It was the best thing we got."

"I myself incurred quite a few losses,"  Giles says, dropping his voice to a nearly inaudible level.  "My recording of Tuscanini conducting a 1942 radio broadcast of _La Traviata_.   My favorite teapot.  My mother's Waterford crystal bowl."

"It was a big one.  6.5 on the Richter scale,"  Xander says.

For a moment, Spike admires Xander.  But his high regard doesn't last long.  Xander did have access to TV, which Spike doesn't have anymore.  No more TV.  No more Hogan.  _Hogan!_

"Buffy, we have to go to Best Buy after this,"  Spike whispers into her ear.

"I know, I know,"  she says, swatting him off as though he were an annoying beetle.  She is focusing on Giles' concerned stare.  She only sees him this pensive when times are dire.  They have been through the roughest of times.  When she looks at him now, she sees every crisis they have ever gone through times ten and she can't help being just a little fearful, especially when she sees him looking at her swaddled baby, who has slept through most of the hurried morning, waking only for a feeding just before they left the apartment.

"Of course, we should all be very glad that we all survived,"  Giles says, injecting a note of cheer into his voice.  "As we all know, a few years ago when these quakes occurred, the Hellmouth was opening.  And when the Hellmouth opened the time before that, we almost lost someone very dear to us."  His eyes jut briefly to his Slayer charge who is watching her baby nursing sweetly at his Nuk while his father strokes his fine-haired scalp.  

"I'd like to prevent of repeat of that if at all possible,"  Buffy says as her baby expels the Nuk from his mouth with a disapproving tongue.  The pacifier lands squarely on the front of his sleeper and Buffy plugs it back in, only to have the baby reject it again.

"That's not the one he likes,"  Spike says.  "You left his favorite at home."

"Well, honey, I picked the first one I saw and I don't recall you being in helpful mode as we were packing to leave."  Buffy picks up the diaper bag, tearing through the contents until she produces half a dozen black and white drawings of smiley, happy faces on heavy cardstock.  She holds one in front of Daniel and he focuses for a while before his features contort, giving a thumbs down to Buffy's attempts at amusing him.  

  "The best thing we can do is discern what may have precipitated this latest quake,"  Giles says in a volumized voice, trying to compete with the baby's cries.   "Has anyone seen anything unusual on patrol?"

Xander shrugs.  "Just the usual bad vamps with bad breath."

"W-Willow and I saw some demons playing poker with kittens for chips,"  Tara says.  "W-we didn't kill the demons, but we did cast a spell that made them return the kittens to the shelter."

"To this day, four of the six kittens have been adopted,"  Willow says with glee.

"Xander and I saw some Koulder demons going to go see the latest Adam Sander film which was weird, because no one else was in line to see it,"  Anya says, "But then we watched the E! Channel and it turns out no one except them saw it, judging by the poor opening."

But there is one thing that happened just under a month ago.

Every hair on the back of Buffy's neck bristles as the full weight of Giles' stare settles on her and her baby.  

"Oh, my God!"  Buffy says.  She rushes to collect the baby in her arms.  She sees all of her friends rise, passing shy glances her way.  They all assume the same thing.  _Daniel has something to do with the quake._

She has known what they have thought all along.  Slayer+Vampire=anomaly.  And this baby, it has to be some sort of sign.  When her friends woke this morning they were feeling their fears under their feet in the vibrations that made their worlds sand in an hourglass.  But she cannot blame them for being afraid.  She is afraid too.

Giles lets his eyes fall to the floor.  His helplessness tightens Buffy's throat until she gasps for air.  "Just say it!  You think Daniel has caused all this!"

"Buffy,"  Spike begins.

"You _do_ think that he's some sort of portent!"

"Buffy, Daniel needs---"  Spike tries to continue.

"You  think he's some kind of new evil that is opening the Hellmouth!"

"Buffy, Daniel!"  Spike yells.

"What?  I just fed him!"  she says, her eyes spilling over with tears.

"Yes, and now he needs to be changed,"  Spike says.

As the mewling infant's cries come to a full throttle demonstration against her breast, Buffy takes the baby into her former training room, now a makeshift changing room.

As she splays her baby's legs wide enough to replace the soiled diaper, Buffy sniffs back tears still, seeing her sweet little baby's cloudy blue eyes, just hinting at recognition of who she is and why she's doing these things for him.

An arm comes up under her swelling breasts and then there is a cold kiss against her neck.  Buffy ignores him, icily, wiping the baby's hind parts with a cleansing cloth.

"Buffy, please don't shut me out,"  he begs.

Buffy does not look at him.  She reaches into the diaper bag and retrieves a new diaper and fits it under her baby's bottom.  While Daniel busies himself by blowing bubbles from his mouth, she is remembering the Master's mouth.  He had Kool Aid mouth.  He bit her.  He almost killed her.  

In her mind she is perusing the branches of Spike's family tree.  The Master sired Darla.  Darla sired Angel.  Angel sired Drusilla.  Drusilla sired Spike.  Spike tried to sire Buffy.  She sired him instead.  And from that union came Daniel.

"Buffy, look at me!"  Spike commands.

Buffy turns to Spike and sees the twisted spiral of the Master's mouth in Spike's pillowy bottom lip.  She is forced to remind herself that Daniel is a member of that line.

She _has _given birth to evil.  

Giles ducks his head into the training room, ruefully.  "Buffy,"  he says.  "Xander and I are paying a visit to the Hellmouth."

"I'm going with you,"  she says resolutely.

"You are not,"  Spike says.  "_I'm _going with them and---

"You're staying with your _childe_,"  Buffy says.  "And I'm going with them."

He hates the way she says "child".  He hates the implied "e" at the end which suggests that he is Daniel's sire.  And he is not.  Daniel is the life he doesn't have anymore.  Daniel is the affirmation that he and Buffy truly love each other.  Daniel is…

Another branch on the Master's family tree.

"Buffy, listen to me,"  Spike says, chasing after her, Daniel sobbing in his arms.  "Buffy, stop!"

Buffy's jutting shoulders shrug off his protestations as she continues on with Xander and Giles, heading for the door.  Spike passes off Daniel into Tara's scrambling arms as he pursues his glacial Slayer.   At the tinkling of the bell, he should stop walking, but he keeps stalking her, still trying to convince her that what he has in his arms is not evil.  The sun singes his skin and he is forcibly beckoned back inside as Giles, Xander, and Buffy head up the street and out of sight.

His skin parboiled, Spike limps back inside, howling, as he powers over to Giles' Mr. Tea Pot, not even bothering to make an internal comment about how Giles has sold out to his adopted country.  He pours the water onto his blistering skin and sinks into a corner as the liquid soothes the wounds.

Willow crouches beside him,  taking his injured hands into hers, recoiling as  steam curls from his flesh.   "Hold on.  I think we have something to at least make you a little less owie."  And she skips off behind the counter.

Spike looks up at Tara who is rocking Daniel in her arms.  She is the consummate earth mother in her long, flowing skirt and loose-fitting peasant top.  She is whispering against the baby's forehead, cooing to him softly, her eyes closing as her full and rounded lips form a gentle lullaby just for his small and sensitive ears.

"Tara, you don't think he's evil, do you?"  he asks.  

Tara is whipped out the enchantment of her own voice and blinks back at Spike.  It is the first time she can remember that he has ever called her by her real name.  She regards the now calm infant with the tender caress of her heavily hooded stare and bends to kiss him.  "No.  He's not evil.  But that doesn't mean there isn't something evil out there that wants him.  Because, you know, vampire and a Slayer having a baby?  It's kind of the stuff that apocalyptic dreams are made of."

Spike eyes her quizzically.  "You think that there's something coming after him from the Hellmouth?"

"Well, I'm not s-s-sure,"  she answers, suddenly bashful in the beam of his probing stare.  "I'm n-not really good with portents.  Just potions.   But it would seem logical that if something evil were setting its sights on Daniel, it might be c-coming through the Hellmouth."

Willow returns with a mortar and pistil, grinding a heady scented herb into a powder.  "Living on the Hellmouth, we do lose sight of the fact that we are also living on a fault line."

"Yeah, if it were only so simple as just earthquakes,"  Spike says.

"A-and even if something is after Daniel, we can stop it.  I mean, so we go up against another Big Bad.  He'll be just a Little Bad in no time when he squares off with seasoned vets like us."  Willow catches Spike's scowl and remembers that she is talking to a former Big Bad in the flesh.  "Oops.  Sorry, Big Bad."  She quickly sprinkles the powder over his pinking skin and gives the invocation, "Vigorite!"

Spike watches as the powder swirls into his reddened hands.  Within seconds, the sting is subsiding.   Once he can move his fingers again without pain, he beckons for Tara to hand over his son.  As the baby finds himself in the familiarity of his father's arms, a trusting glow emanates from his serene little face and Spike feels that recurring tightening around his heart.  "Yeah, I'm the Big Bad,"  he mutters, passing his bottom lip over the baby's mouth.  "I'm the Big Bad."

Dawn bangs on the front door of Travis' house, noting that the hedges are still handsomely arranged, that the furniture on the front porch is still in place.

"Dawn, what are you doing here?"  Travis asks.  "You should be home---           

She invites herself in with a brush of her hand against his shoulder.  Warily, she inches into the front hall.  At first she sees the chandelier, hanging in perfect symmetry.  A quick pass of her eyes to the right and she observes that the so-called Mud Room is just as mudless as ever.  To the left, all the furniture in the living room is in yardstick alignment, the carefully and tastefully chosen knick-knacks all in one piece.  Even the oil painting of Salome holding the head of John the Baptist is still holding ghastly court over the heavy marble mantelpiece. 

She hoped that it wouldn't look this way.  On her walk over, she saw cars skidded in zigzags all over the road, water exploding from underground pipes and glass poured from shattered windows sprinkled over the sidewalks.  As she neared Travis's neighborhood, the visible damage began to diminish and her heart began to lose hope.  It's not that she wanted Travis to have gone through what she did in the early hours.  No, she just wanted to see something out of place in Samantha Singleton's Palace of Perfection.  But the house looks as HGTV-ready as usual.

"We, uh, we were lucky,"  Travis stammers in a psuedo-apologetic voice.  "We were far enough away from the epicenter, I guess.  We heard that Springfield Heights got hit real bad.  I was worried you were hurt, but then the news reporter said there were no casualties.  The church where we go.  It was almost demolished.  That's where my Mom and Dad are now.  Seeing if they can salvage anything."

_Who cares about your fucking church!_  Dawn's mind screams.  Dawn can imagine his family gathered around their 60-inch flat screen TV, whispering prayers that they were fortunate enough to be passed over, but not giving the smallest offering to those who had lost everything.  Dawn can almost hear Mrs. Singleton sneering, "So they lost everything?  How much could people like that have?"

Bitter tears collect in her eyes as she remembers how this morning, Buffy poured her cereal into a chipped ceramic bowl and realized it was the only bowl left that wasn't broken.  "Here, Dawn.  You eat it.  I'll have a banana.  They bruise, but they don't break."

Dawn surveys a row of optimistic Hummel figurines with their angelic, open mouths and wonders to herself, "Why couldn't one---just _one_ of those have been destroyed?"

"Oh, Dawn,"  Travis is saying in a sympathetic tone.  "I can't imagine what you must have gone through this morning.  Was there much damage?  Can anything be saved?"

She can't beat down her surging emotion any longer and a sob builds to a painful crescendo in her chest.  "It was just a jar!"  she screams.

Travis stands back.  "Huh?"

She sucks back a wave of tears and tries to speak as steadily as she can.  "It was a jar I had been s-saving.  With seashells.  Every time I went to visit Dad, I brought back s-sea shells and I put them in this jar that my Mom helped me decorate with puffy paint.  The jar was sitting on my desk.  A-and it fell off during the qu-quake and the jar was crushed to bits.  I couldn't believe it.  I-it was just gone!  All those memories…"

"Well, isn't that where you keep your laptop too?  Is it gone?"

Dawn narrows her eyes to slits.  "I don't give a shit about my laptop, Travis!  But that's just like you.  Juuuuust like you to value something that cost a lot over something that meant a lot.  What do you fucking care, anyway?  You have this big house.  Your two-car garage.  Your mother and father.  You actually have a real family, Travis.  I don't really have a mother and father anymore.  All I have are broken shells on my bedroom floor!"

A warm hand comes to land on her shoulder and she is reminded that at her first discovery of the smashed mementos, she wanted her sister so badly.  But instead, there was Spike.

"And Buffy doesn't even care,"  she says.  "She had to stay with the baby.  Even after she saw he was all right, she wasn't letting him go.  Not even long enough to see if _I_ was OK."

The baby.  Travis' mind spins back to the morning when he heard his parents' footfalls on the carpet outside his room as they hurried off to the church.  He ducked out into the hallway, thinking the house was on fire and they had neglected to tell him.  Then he heard the hysterical pitch in his mother's voice as she shouted over her shoulder to his father, "Oh, God, Steven.  Do you think he's really coming now?   Have we waited too long to perform the sacrifice?"   

            A part of him cheers when he hears the slight semblance of resentment in Dawn's words.   "So, uh, Buffy acted like she cared more about the baby then she did about you?"

            "Well, I don't know,"  Dawn says, forcing herself to remember Buffy's cereal surrender at 8:00 am.  "I just really needed her then.  That's all.  I know she has someone else to mother now.  Someone who really is her child.  But it still isn't easy, you know?  After all this time, being her number one concern.  And now I'm here at number two.  They say it's lonely at the top.  It's even lonelier the step below."

            "I know,"  he exhales.  "I _know_."

            "What?"  she blasts.  "How could _you_ know?  You're an only child!"

            "Listen, I know, Dawn, because…"  He realizes how loud he is yelling when the crystals in the chandelier above begin to tinkle and sway.  He gathers up his anger in a sigh and says,  "I know because my Mom and Dad had a baby when I was twelve.  He didn't live very long.  He was fine when he was born and he was healthy and all, but one night he went to sleep and he didn't wake up in the morning.  The doctors really didn't have any explanation except it was just one of those things."  Travis' mouth twists to one side and his eyes roam the walls, the floor, the doorframes…anyplace where he can't see Dawn's shocked expression.

            "Oh, God, Travis…"  All at once in makes sense to her.  All the times she tried to talk about the baby and he would hastily, sometimes angrily change the subject.  The rejections of the baby pictures, the complete refusal to come and see Daniel…She stands there in complete shame, wishing back all those entreaties uttered before the first bell in the morning, "Travis, you really should see Daniel."  She reaches to touch his arm, which he withdraws and tucks under his other arm.  "Travis, I'm so sorry.  I didn't know."

            "Well, yeah.  You didn't know.  But you do now." 

            "Why didn't you tell me before?"

            "Because.  I didn't want to put any thoughts in your head that the same thing might happen to Daniel."  _That something can come, in the night, and steal the baby you love and leave nothing behind but an empty cradle._

"Oh, Travis…I just don't know what to say.  I feel so horrible now."

            "Don't.  It was a long time ago.  He's all but forgotten now, buried back in Los Angeles.  My parents never even talk about him."

            Dawn can tell by the anguished look on his face that something in him still wants to talk about him.  She tries again to touch him, this time successfully maneuvering her hand around his wrist until their fingers are wrapped together.  "What was his name?"  she asks.

            "Michael,"  he says, finding it strange just saying his name again.  

            "I'll bet he was adorable,"  Dawn says.

            "He was,"  he swallows.  "I'd show you pictures, but I don't know where they are."

            She doesn't have to see pictures.  She is seeing the infant in the memories reflected on Travis' haunted face now, how precious he was in his pastel sleepers, his little hands curling and uncurling as he slept peacefully.  She thinks about how she stares at Daniel sometimes and he is so still she wonders if he's OK.  And then he will flinch or his eyelids will flutter and she knows he is safe.  To think that something could just come and take him away without explanation…

            "Oh, Travis,"  she says, drawing him gently into her arms.  There is resistance at first, but then his arms come up around her back, pushing gently against her, his after school jock activities becoming more and more apparent in his firm and muscular hold on her.  She kisses the side of his face, directing her lips cautiously to his.  When their mouths join at last, there is vulnerability there like the taste of liquor.

            He holds her, feeling her tremble against him and wondering how she could be requiting some need in him when he does embrace her, hoping against hope that what he is feeling is not love, because it can't be.  He has to ultimately disappoint her.  He will become that thing in the night.  But he adores her.  He has known this since the day he saw her, Slayer sister or not.  Even as he uttered the tarnished line, "You're different from the other girls,"  he meant it.   There was a perpetual sadness about her, an inner wound so like the one festering in his own body.  He would see her laugh at their friends' jokes, but always, there was a shadow of some secret pain lurking around the edges of her smile.  She was just like him.  

            "I love you, Travis,"  she says in a shudder against his cheek.

            He curls a finger and loops a lock of her hair around it, smiling down at her as she waits breathlessly for a reply.  "And I love you, Dawn."

  
  



	18. Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

            Dawn slowly ascends the stairs to her apartment at Sunnydale Heights.  As she nears the fifth floor, she is aware of a nagging intuitiveness.  There is something tugging at her conscience, reminding her that this day wasn't just about being in a sunny living room in her boyfriend's arms in a house situated in a neighborhood where, apparently, nothing ever goes wrong.  

            She remembers a time, not too long ago, when she and Spike were coming home from an impromptu trip to L.A. to buy a dress for her first high school dance.  She walked the green mile to her apartment with a sense of dread and actually felt her sister's anger glowing hot from inside the apartment, even before she entered.  Today she doesn't know what to expect.  If Buffy were concerned about her whereabouts today, she would have called.  But the phone didn't ring once while Dawn was at Travis' house.  Not once.

            Maybe the phone lines are down, Dawn thinks, making her way down the hall to the apartment.  And then a second thought comes into her head that almost makes her gasp:  _Maybe she has been trying to call and couldn't reach me!_

_            Dawn hurries to the door, fumbling with her house key.  _

_The Key_.

She looks at the gold key in her hand.  She was so close to telling Travis this afternoon about her life before she was a teenager, specifically that she wasn't alive before she was a teenager.  Some powerful monks, they were, able to cast a spell over the entire populace of Sunnydale and convince the denizens that she was always a part of their midst.  But how easy would it be for her to tell her boyfriend that she used to be mystical energy?  She wrestled with that notion all afternoon, finally convincing herself that it wouldn't be a good move until she clarified her confession with Buffy.

Dawn inserts her house key.  Normally when she does this, and she is late or has gone missing or is about to be grounded for some reason, the door is opened automatically.  This time, she has to go through the act of putting in the key and twisting the knob.

            This is weird.

            Travis skips easily up the stone steps leading to the bricked walkway of his home.  He takes easy strides, hands in pockets as he heads for the entrance.  The minute his hand touches the knob, the door is thrown open and his mother is standing there.

            "Oh, Travis!"  she almost moans as she draws him inside.  "Something terrible has happened."

            Samantha Singleton escorts her son into the living room where he is greeted by a clutch of familiar congregationalists.  Mr. Chapman.  Mr. Walliston.  Mrs. Wright.  Reverend Estey is seated on the sofa.  And this is not an after-church luncheon.

            This is weird.

            Inside the apartment, Dawn observes that things are slightly askew, and not just the things tossed about during the quake.

            Buffy is on the floor, sweeping up shards of whatever with a hand-held broom.   Spike is over by the TV, fiddling with the knobs on the back.  

 Buffy lifts her head briefly to acknowledge her sister's presence.

            "Oh good.  You're back.  Here,"  she says, shoving a Hefty bag Dawn's way.  "Go into your room.  Anything that's broken and can't be repaired gets put in the bag."

            Dawn takes the bag, bunching the drawstring top worriedly in her hands.  "OK."

            Buffy suddenly looks as though she has caught the scent of something dead and rotting in the apartment.  "You been with Travis all this time?"  she asks.

            "Well, yeah,"  Dawn says shyly.  From her sister's nonchalant demeanor, Dawn quickly discerns that she has not been missed.  Gone are the days when a trip to the public restroom lasting more than five minutes would warrant a countywide search.  For a minute, Dawn feels very much the grown-up, but at the same time, she is crestfallen.  No one cared where she was…

            "Oh, come on!"  Spike yells as he slams his hand against the side of the TV.  "Work, sod you!"

            "Yeah, that's the way to get it going again,"  Buffy mutters.  "Slap it around a few times."

            "That usually gets _you going again,"  Spike returns._

            "What did you say?"  Buffy asks acidly.  

            "Nothing, dear.  Nothing,"  he says, directing his attention once again to the picture tube.  "Ooh, wait!  I think I see something!"

            "It's your own reflection,"  Buffy sniffs.

            Spike frowns.  "I'm a vampire, love.   Reflections don't come standard with the package, you know."

            This sort of acrimony is not completely unknown to Dawn.  She grew up with it, after all, her parents' marriage a shamble by the time she was nine and completely over when she turned ten.  For a long time she assumed that such animosity was not only natural, but also integral in a couple's relationship.  Dawn has born witness to Buffy and Spike's more intense moments of spontaneous passion, as well as their just as intense and impulsive quarrels.  But always in the heat of their arguments, there is a lilt of promise, as though their anger will diffuse and in a day or two they will once again be tugging each other's clothes off and humping in a corner when they think no one is looking.  There is something different about this particular rift.  Dawn can almost feel the jagged edges of it snagging the molecules of air in the room, giving her the illusion of suffocation.  

            "Is there something wrong, Dawn?"  Buffy asks.

            Dawn shakes her head.  And then, "Well…I don't know,"  she says, continuing to fiddle with the top of the garbage bag.  "Can I talk to you in the kitchen?"

Buffy sighs and rests her hands on her hips.  "Yeah, I guess so."

Once they are alone in the kitchen, Dawn asks, "First of all, are you and Spike OK?"

            Buffy frowns and waves a casual hand in the air.  "It's just been one of those days.  With the quake and then nothing new or exciting at the Hellmouth to tell us what might be wrong.  We're just sort of on edge, I guess.  Why?  What's wrong with you?"

            "Well…it's just that…um…"  She doesn't even know where to begin with this.  But she can see her sister's patience is wearing thin.  "It's just that Travis and I are getting beyond the hand-holding stage in our relationship and---

            "Oh really?"  Buffy interjects, folding her arms.  "And just what _are you holding now?"_

            The teenager blushes.  "Don't worry.  We're still playing it safe.  What I mean is, we're getting to the point where we really aren't keeping secrets from each other.  And I was just wondering what you thought…or how it would be if…"  She starts again.  "You see, Buffy…Travis told me something about his past today and now I really think I should tell him about mine."

            Buffy studies her sister carefully.  "You mean…?"

            Dawn nods.  "I want to tell him about me being the Key."

Travis stands in the middle of the living room, equidistant from the church members, his pastor, his mother, and his father.  He is the featured player now and apparently the ensemble has been waiting for his entrance for some time just so that they can continue with the scene.  

            "The first death has taken place,"  Samantha Singleton says, adjusting a crystal dolphin figurine on her coffee table as though noticing it were half an inch off from its usual position.  

            "Who?"  Travis asks, noting his throat has suddenly gone bone dry.

            There is silence from the gathering as they each pass sheepish glances.  But out of the silence arises a tiny, choked voice, like that of a man, hypnotized into recalling how he sounded before adolescence.  

            "She went in early.  Said she had a lot to do, with the sesquicentennial coming up so fast,"  the man says.

            Travis slowly realizes that this is Mr. Walliston speaking.  His lips are barely moving and his face is frozen as though he is wearing his own death mask over his features.  Travis does not know whom he is talking about at first, though.  Then it hits him.  It's his wife, Mrs. Walliston, the church secretary, who has died. 

            "She said she was going to be typing and sealing envelopes all day,"  Mr. Walliston continues.  "She asked me if I wanted to help for a couple hours before I had to go into the office, but I said no…that I'd rather sleep.  I told…her…I'd r-rather sleep."  He buries his head in his hands, his face showing red between his fingers.

            Travis knows---or _knew---Mrs. Walliston.  She worked at the church for years and kept a jar full of antique ribbon candy on her desk.  She hated computers and still printed out the church bulletins on her aged mimeograph machine, cranking them out one at a time.  The bulletins always smelled like grapes when hot off the press, but did not taste so sweet, as Travis found out one Sunday when he drew an inquisitive tongue across the words of the doxology.  Mrs. Walliston often tagged along as a chaperone on youth group trips, an embarrassing caboose of a woman in her tight fuchsia stretch pants and straw hat.  Some of the kids in the church called her Mrs. Wallis-Two-Ton.  Travis recalls being one of those kids.  _

"How did she die?"  Travis asks before he can even think about the inappropriateness of his question at this moment.  

            "She was in the church office when the floor collapsed,"  Phyllis Wright says quietly, rubbing Stanley Walliston's heaving back.

"Are you sure?"  Travis asks.  "I mean, she could have stepped out or gone to another room or---

            Reverend Estey rises from the sofa to hush Travis with a wave of his hand.  "She's gone, Travis.  As is most of the building.  The walls remain.  The basement is nearly gone.  The sanctuary has begun to sink as well.  It won't be long before…"  The pastor cuts himself off before he can admit to himself and everyone else that their worst fears are coming true.

            Travis feels a hand on his forearm.  He turns to see his mother's gray eyes looking at him with what appears to be sympathy.  "That's why we have to have the baby.  And soon."  After she speaks, her lips peel back in a feral baring of her teeth that makes Travis visibly shudder.

            Travis scans the room helplessly for a compassionate countenance, but finds none.  He is hopeful that his father will be regarding him with that unspoken cheer behind his dour expression.  But his father is facing away from him in the wingback chair, drawing his fingers across the pink and white stripes of the upholstery as though strumming a guitar. 

            "I can't do it,"  he mutters under his breath and dropping his head.

            "What did you say?"  his mother says in a near hiss.

            "I said I can't do it,"  Travis says again, this time louder and with enough courage to look his mother straight in the eye.  "I'm really sorry to disappoint everyone, but I just can't take Buffy's baby.

            He watches as the comprehension of his words slowly drains all the color from his mother's face.  After a few agonizing moments of stony silence, she takes him by the arm.  "Travis.  I believe we need to talk."

            Buffy's mouth has remained open for about five minutes, so long that Dawn is beginning to wonder if she should shut it for her.

            "Well, Buffy?  What do you think?"  Dawn asks warily, already knowing the answer.

            "What do I think?"  Buffy flares.    "I think that you and Travis must have spent the afternoon smoking crack."

            "Huh?"  Dawn asks, truly dumb-founded by her sister's response.

             "Honey!  Think!"  Buffy says, rapping a fist on the top of her sister's head.  "If you told Travis you were the Key then you would have to tell him why the monks sent you to me.  And it wasn't just because I knew where to find all the good shopping in Sunnydale."

            "Well, what's wrong with telling him you're the Slayer?  I think he could handle that.  He's lived in Sunnydale long enough to know that the things that go bump in the night are generally kind of bumpy."

            "Dawn, being the Slayer is supposed to be a secret identity.  No one is supposed to know."

            "But there are people who do."

            "Yes.  My friends.  And sometimes I wish I never told them because I am constantly having to put their lives in danger when it's supposed to be my job to protect innocent people from the demons of the world."

            "OK.  So they're your friends.  And they've helped you save the world since high school.  Maybe Travis could help you too.  He is very strong,"  she says, remembering the muscular clutch she found herself in for most of the afternoon.

            "Dawn, I have enough to do watching out for the necks of the people who do know about me.  And really.  Would you really want your boyfriend putting his life at stake, _with a stake?"  Buffy reaches out to touch her sister's arm.  "I just don't think you've really thought this through."_

            Dawn folds her arms, defiantly cocking her jaw.  "You're right.  I didn't think you would react like this.  But I should have known that you'd turn something so completely about me into something so completely about you."

            "Excuse me?"

            "I don't know why I expected you to be any different about this,"  Dawn huffs.  "You're so damn self-centered, Buffy.  'Oh, Dawnie can't tell her boyfriend she was the Key because then he'll know all about me and my nightly cemetery visits.'"  Dawn shakes her head.  "So I guess the only people who can find out about you are those that can fight the good fight.  Or fuck the good fuck."

            A scarlet flush completely envelops Buffy's face.  "Dawn!"

            "Too bad for Parker you never told him about you're being the Slayer.  I'm sure he would have considered bedding someone with super powers to be a real conquest.  He might have even called you the next day.  You know.  After he was back from finding a special knife to carve another notch in his bedpost."

            All of a sudden Spike is between them and the two take turns staring at him as though he has appeared in a cloud of smoke.  "All right, that's enough!"  he bellows.  "Normally, I find your little spats amusing, but tonight I'm a mite short on chuckles.  I simply cannot stand idly by while you're saying such cruel things to the mother of my child.   Dawn, how dare you even think about accusing your sister of being self-centered when you, you little prat, have authored enough books on the subject to fill a bleedin' Barnes and Noble!  You apologize to your sister right now, do you hear me?"

            A nervous laugh escapes Dawn's lips.  "Oh, come on Spike, I---

            "Say you're sorry to your sister or so help me I'll reach down into your throat, tear out your vocal chords and beat an apology out of you!"

            Dawn's breath is caught somewhere in her chest.  Her eyes are fixed on the furious vampire whose cerulean stare is now tinged with gold.  His demon is so close to the surface his skin is straining to contain it.

            "I'm sorry,"  she says softly. 

            "Say it again, Dawn.  And this time to your sister and not to the lino."

            "I'm sorry, Buffy,"  she says

            Buffy is still a little shaken by her sister's harsh verbiage, especially the from-out-of-nowhere Parker reference.  "It's OK,"  she says in a slight rasp.  

            "Right, then,"  Spike says, only half-satisfied with Dawn's apology.  "Now I believe your sister asked you to go tidy up your room.  So I suggest that you get tidying."

            The whole time, the garbage bag has never left Dawn's hands and now she holds it now like she wishes she could jump right into it and seal herself up.  The Slayer and her vampire lover watch the girl skulk away slowly, her shoulders stooped and her face still plastered with an insolent scowl.  Once the door to her room is shut, Spike lets out a long-held breath.  He looks at Buffy.  He isn't completely certain, but he thinks there may be a little gratitude trying to emerge from all the excesses of her misguided anger toward him.  But she doesn't say a word to him.  She was never one to wield the words "thank you" carelessly, even when warranted.  To admit appreciation in a situation she thinks she could have handled is like admitting she needed someone else's help and the warrior in her simply won't have that.

            Her face as inscrutable as ever, she turns slowly and heads back to her broom and dustpan.  Spike joins her, bending again at the TV and hoping for a miracle.

            Travis watches his mother cross the cramped space of the breakfast nook several times before she finally pauses.  One of the hands that has been clutched behind her back flies away from its constraints and connects with his cheek.

            He recoils, smarting only lightly, and meets her gaze with a resolve he didn't have a day ago because today he knows for certain he loves Dawn.  He _loves_ her.  Even now with his mother presented so angrily in front of him, he is remembering Dawn's arms and her sweet impassioned lips against his.  And what they did to put that glass dolphin figurine out of place on the coffee table…

            His mother is still storming around, thinking that the closed doors will cushion her remarks when Travis can hear his parents' heated arguments from this very place from his second floor bedroom, even with the doors shut.  In the next room the Congregationalists are hearing…

            "How dare you!"  Samantha thunders.  "How dare you!"

            "Mom, please!  I just can't do it.  It's murder!"

            "Yes!"  Samantha hisses.  "Murder!  Murder of thousands of souls!  All of our souls going to hell.  When Satan finally digs himself out of that hole---

            "He's going to claim us all.  I know that, Mom.  But a baby.  Daniel's just a baby."

            "He is a demon!"  Samantha shrieks, tearing two twin streamers of her hair completely out of her skull.  "He is born from hell!"

            "No!"  Travis exclaims, clamping his hands over his ears.

            "He is the Devil's spawn!"

            "Mom, stop!"  he says, squeezing his eyes shut.

            "He was fathered by a vampire!  A creature who spilled his seed into the womb of a living woman."  Samantha twists her son's chin in her direction.  "Do I have to remind you of the words we have lived by all these years?"

            "No,"  he says reluctantly.  

            "Do I?"  Samantha asks again, her fingernails digging into the flesh of Travis' chiseled chin.

            "No!"

            "Then get the child!"  Samantha says, giving his chin a final pinch before relinquishing it.

            He turns away from his mother, the skin of his chin still stinging.  Inwardly he is looking at a gallery of faces, chief among them the plump face of his baby brother who lived for just a short time and was born from parents who were both human of species, but not nearly so in practice.

            "Mikey,"  he says.

            "What?"  Samantha asks.

            "Mikey.  You and Dad called him Mikey."

            His mother's lips tighten around a series of expletives she is holding in, Travis is certain, for the purpose of decorum.  The one that is acceptable emerges as, "You bastard."

            "You can't stand knowing that there is a woman out there who has a living, healthy baby,"  Travis says, seeing his mother begin to wilt.

            "You don't know what you're talking about!"  his mother says weakly.

            "I think I do.  And I think you know what I'm talking about.  Little Mikey."

            "Travis!"  Samantha wails.

            "You woke up one day and he was dead and there was nothing you could do about it!"  Travis makes plain with an accusatory index finger.

            "Travis!"  This time it is his father who is saying his name, in that deep, monotone voice that has always either sent shivers or assurances through Travis.  There is no happy medium between the two.  He shakes his son by his shoulders.  "We can't stop it!"

            In his father's eyes, he sees the whole sinking hole of the sanctuary.  He sees the flames licking from the depths of Hell.  He sees the whole city engulfed in those flames.  He sees his life gone and everyone else's.   He sees Dawn and projects her own painful descent into Satan's realm and how he can stop it with the singular sacrifice of one small child, even if it is someone she loves.

            "I never thought it would be this hard,"  Travis says, his stomach tightening as he imagines Dawn in the aftermath of the sacrifice.  He doesn't know how he can face her after that.

            His father loosens his grip.  Within seconds he is crying.  Samantha as well.  The inevitable end is hitting all of them.  A baby must die.  Travis thinks about the last e-mailed picture Dawn sent him.  Daniel was blue-eyed, blond-haired, and generous of lip,  like his father.   But there was something that reminded him of Dawn.  Maybe the recessed chin given to pouting or the way, in the picture at least, that he peered at the world so desolately.

            "He's a demon,"  Samantha insists through her tears.  "Daniel is a demon."

            He can't help who his parents are, Travis thinks sadly.   No one wants this.  The baby's death is a consequence of pre-determined origins.  Dawn will understand this.  And Buffy, being the Slayer, will understand this further.  Travis says this to himself so it won't be so much a murder as it is a needful thing to seal the world off from the conquering of Hell.

            "I'll do it,"  Travis says.

              
  



	19. Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

            About an hour past sundown, Buffy and Spike find themselves at Sunnydale's Wal-Mart Super Center amid throngs of quake victims combing the aisles for Rollbacks and avoiding the occasional spillage.  Like many others, they have waited out aftershocks, which, on the Hellmouth, tend to stretch out days beyond the initial quake.  After a week, most are assured that the seismic activity is over and they can save their Styrofoam plates for picnics.   Hundreds of citizens are now carting away their new lives in paper or plastic.

            Buffy is looking at a rack of faux-Fiestaware when Spike slams an economy size pack of baby diapers into the cart.

            "Buffy, they have TV's here."  Spike says enthusiastically.  "Some of them are scratched and dented from the quake, but they work, and they're being sold on the cheap.  $150 for a 27-inch Magnavox!"

            "Spike, you got Pampers!"  Buffy says, feeling the weight of the expensive diapers against the balance of her checking account.

            "Yeah?  So?"  

            "So?   We can't afford diddly squat if we get those.  Daniel's going through about twelve diapers a day.  If we buy Pampers, we may as well be wrapping his butt in gold leaf,"  she says, shoving the offending would-be purchase into his hands.  

            "Buffy, there is such a thing as being frugal and there are such things as explosive bowel movements that get all over you and everything you own."  He puts the Pampers back into her hands.  "Think about it."

            "I don't have time for this.  Do you have to argue with me about everything?"  She forces the diapers back into his hands.  "Just go and get the store brand, OK?"

            "Fine then!"  he exhales.  "Just don't come crying to me when your favorite halter top gets relegated to the rag pile when Daniel takes one of his epic shits."  He turns and walks down the aisle.  Midway, he jettisons the diapers, hurling them high into the air and knocking over a row of coolers on the top shelf.  From the other side of the aisle someone yowls, "Ouch!"  Spike smiles broadly.  "Oh, Slayer, dearest,"  he says in a sing-songy voice.  "It seems there is a bit of humanity that needs protecting from a vampire on aisle nine."

            She is holding a coffee mug at the time, one that her lover will probably use for his nips of blood.  Without even thinking about it, she launches it down the aisle.  But her aim is off.  She misses him by a hair, by a flaxen hair on his infuriating head.  

            God, why have I been letting him get to me lately? she wonders to herself, combing her fingers through her hair.  She wakes up some mornings and sees him lying beside her and it's just like the old days when they were adversaries:  she just wants to beat the crap out of him.  It's not that he's changed or that he is less helpful than before.  Some mornings he is by Daniel's crib before she is, hearing his cries while she's still clinging to sleep.  She finds reasons to be irritated by him more often than she used to.  A few mornings ago he went into the bathroom to shower and let one of her silk panties fall from the curtain rod and onto the floor where it was subsequently drenched because even after all this time of living in civilization, he still forgets to put the curtain on the inside.  She screamed at him for an hour.   Just this afternoon he was singing _I Wanna Be Sedated_ and every time he got to the chorus she wanted to just fling him headfirst outside the window.  She views him with a stranger's eyes sometimes, like he's some random subway rider who keeps elbowing her accidentally at every stop.  She has often asked herself, "Could I love him more?"  Lately she has been asking herself, "Do I love him anymore?"

            "It's all right.  Everything is going to be all right,"  he tells her over and over on nights when she can't sleep, when he knows that her mind is fixed on the Hellmouth and what may be coming out of it next, or if there is anything at all.  There are the romantic musings he intones while nuzzling her neck and letting his hands roam under her nightgown.  "I love your shoulder, Buffy.  I wish sometimes I could make myself small and just live on it, rolling my whole body there."  She feels nothing.  She crawls away to her own side of the bed and he knows, at this point, that following her is a no-no.  This doesn't keep him from trying the next night, though.

            He sleeps beside her, dead.  There's nothing about his countenance that suggests that he is anything other than a dead man when he sleeps.  Sometimes his face takes on his demon self and she knows he is either recalling his hunting days or is hungry for a feed.  She rises from the bed, takes her leave and sits silently in the den, occasionally curling up on the sofa and drifting off to sleep while reading or just staring off into the darkness.  She will listen from time to time to the arguments between the couple in the adjoining apartment, but she can only imagine what they are fighting about.  She doesn't understand Spanish.

            She doesn't understand what she and Spike are fighting about, if they are fighting at all.  When she woke up to the quake, she had a new understanding, a new outlook, and it wasn't something that she welcomed with open arms.  This was the realization of the good girl who longs to be bad and has run wild for a time, mad with the notion of being rebellious with her arm around the guy everyone has told her she is too good for.  She doesn't know if the novelty had worn off or if he was never the guy she thought he was.  At any rate, as she thinks about him in aisle eight of the Super Wal-Mart past seven on a Friday night, she is shocked to hear herself mutter: 

            "Killer."

            Spike is in the baby section, searching for the store brand diapers.  His eyes fall on a tube of Desinex and he remembers that Daniel has been having some irritation on his bottom from the multiple changes he goes through in a day.  He reaches for the Desinex, but them remembers:  they're on a budget.  Best to get the store brand to avoid another fight.

            Why have we been fighting?  He asks himself again.  It just seems to him that the earth's restlessness has unleashed a whole lot of trouble, even if they have been unable to discern what exactly is escaping from the Hellmouth this time.  

            There wasn't anything there, no new energy being emitted.  He knows this because he went to the Hellmouth himself one night after patrol.  The place was quiet, tomb-like, almost engaging to him.  But there was nothing out of the ordinary.  Lately the old high school has been a shrine to graffiti artists who stake their claim by leaving such amusements as, "Fried Mayor here" with an arrow drawn towards the ash remains of the snake form still rotting away to nothingness after five years.  Further exploration of the ruined space reveals that Jason is still the cool J and Tiffany and Graham as 4-ever.

            Nothing new from Hellmouth central.  But still, Buffy thinks there is.

            He is accustomed to her rejections, but not in their bed, where they have slept together for over a year and have created a child together.  These days they retire early, at nine o'clock, and they go to sleep quickly, unless Spike is feeling adventurous and tries again with the seduction.  He loves her bare shoulders and he kisses them, laving affection and praise on them.  But she always turns away.

            At night he dreams horrible things, visions he could never voice to Buffy because she would worry, or, even worse, she wouldn't care.  He can't read her these days.  He dreams that Daniel is being taken away.  He dreams that he sinks his fangs into multiple necks, trying to find the person responsible.  His body gorging with blood in his dreams, he wakes thirsty and alone.  Then he walks to the kitchen he finds Buffy on the sofa, sound asleep.

            He doesn't know what has driven her away from him, because he has been as loving and supportive as any man could be through this.  He wakes before she does some mornings and guides the nipple of a bottle of Buffy's expressed milk into Daniel's mouth so that she won't have to get up.  But it's never as good as the real thing.  Daniel is old enough to tell his parents what he wants.  And what he wants is Buffy.

            Spike wants Buffy, but not the way she is.  After months of warmth and terms of endearment and lusty touches under the covers, she is as distant as she was when he first fell in love with her.  She knew whom she was falling in love with.  Now she seems to be realizing _what_ she was falling in love with.  

            He has changed to the point that drinking blood is almost repulsive to him, but he does it because it keeps him alive.   He holds Daniel, sees his little, trusting face staring back at him and wants to cry, almost, because he has never known a more innocent face and has never felt such goodness run through him.  He is bathed in holy water every time he holds his son and instead of burning, he is baptized.  

            He looks at the array of baby things, bundling teething rings and cushy toys under his coat.  There are so many things to pacify the baby, but not one to appease the mother.  He will find it one day.  

            He shakes his head.  "Slayer,"  is what he says as someone on the loudspeaker begs for customer service at check-out counter fifteen.

Buffy is comparing prices between deli turkey, packaged or sliced, when she hears a feminine voice calling her name.  She turns in the direction of the voice and finds a woman, crop-haired and care-worn, lumbering in her path with a cart full of everything from pre-cooked bacon to refrigerator magnets.

            "Candyce!"  Buffy says, taking a few minutes to put a name to the face.

            "Oh my goodness!  It's been ages!"  Candyce says.

            "Yeah.  Since last Christmas,"  Buffy says, seeing many late nights with a screaming baby crammed in the spaces of Candyce's premature wrinkles and wondering if she might be starting a few of her own.

            "How've you been?  Oh!  Silly question.  I _see_ how you've been.  You've been busy!"  she gushes, seeing the baby cradled in the front of the cart.  "Wow.  When did that happen?"

            "About four weeks ago,"  Buffy replies.

            "Oh!"  Candyce says.  "Boy or girl?"

            "Boy.  Daniel.  His name is Daniel."

            "What a little sweetheart!"  Candyce breathes as she worms a finger under Daniel's lax hand.  "Aren't they great?"  she asks as the baby grabs her finger.

            "Yeah.  A lot of work, but he's wonderful,"  Buffy says.  

            "Every woman should be a mother.  It's just the best thing that's ever happened to me.  I'm sure you feel the same way."

            Buffy doesn't answer.  She knows there are mothers out there who can sit in sunny rooms with gingham upholstered journals and write in calligraphy all their feelings about babies and getting in touch with one's true self.  But all Buffy can think about at the moment is how tired she is and how she just wants to go to bed.

            "So, I guess your hubby is home with your little one, huh?"  Buffy asks, changing the subject, hoping Candyce doesn't notice her suddenly prickly demeanor.  

            "Oh.  Stuart."  Candyce winces.  "Oh, gosh,"  she says, smoothing her hands down either side of her jeans.  "This just doesn't get any easier."  Candyce takes a deep, steadying breath and anchors herself on the handle of her cart.  "Um, Stuart died six weeks ago."

            "Oh no.  Oh no…"  Buffy finds herself saying, goo-brained at uttering anything else in the wake of what Candyce has told her.  "Oh, Candyce.  I'm so sorry.  What happened?"

            Candyce shakes her head.  "His cancer came back.  He was in another round of chemo when he caught pneumonia.  His immune system was just too weak to fight it.  He went just like that."  Candyce's gray eyes well up with tears and she blinks them away bashfully.  "Whoo.  Every time I think I've cried my last cry, another one catches me by surprise."

            Buffy wraps a comforting hand around Candyce's suddenly trembling forearm.  "I'm just so sorry, Candyce.  You know, I only met him that one time but it seemed that you and Stuart had something very special."

            "We did.  We really did.  But also, we knew we might not have a lot of time together, so we spent every day loving each other as much as we could.  Stuart was always optimistic.  The day he died, I was sitting by his bed and we were planning our sunroom addition that we hoped to build in the spring.  He was really excited about it.  All the building materials are still stacked in the yard, covered by a tarp.  I think I'm still going to have it built just because, you know, it was something we wanted."  Candyce laughs and a few tears spill from her eyes.  "He said he could almost see Matthew finding a new territory in the house to claim as his own."

            It is strange to Buffy that in her lifetime she has faced snorting demons, hissing vampires and at least one ill-tempered and badly coiffed hell god, but looking at grief, naked and raw grief, is sometimes the scariest thing in the world.   In all sorts of situations she can just bound in and take control, but here, with her long-lapsed school acquaintance in such terrible pain, her super powers are completely useless.  

            "How are you doing?  Really?"  Buffy asks.

            "Oh.  I think I'm doing OK.  But I've heard it's when people stop asking you, 'Are you doing OK?' that you're really back on track.  I'm doing all right, though.  I keep telling myself that better days are ahead, that one day I'll actually be able to take a deep breath without letting a sob out.  Matthew keeps me going."

            At this same time, Spike puts the store brand diapers in Buffy's cart as though already anticipating the child's BM's, shaking his hands upon delivery.  

            "There you go!  One pack of store brand diapers.  And a pooper scooper for when the inevitable happens," he says.

            Candyce purses her lips as though she has gotten a bitter taste of the tension between Buffy and Spike and she takes a few steps back.

Undaunted by Candyce's shrinking response to his presence, Spike is ever the charmer.  "Hello.  Do I know you?"

"Spike,"  Buffy says.  "You remember Candyce, don't you?"

Spike nods pleasantly.  Buffy thinks she can discern a hint of a wolfish grin in Spike's face as he takes in Candyce's full-figured form.

"Your son is a little angel,"  Candyce says.

"I beg your pardon!"  Spike exclaims heatedly.  Then he demurs.  "Oh.  Right.  You mean.  Well, thanks.  Thank you.  We have been very blessed,"  he says, tightening an arm around Buffy's shoulder. 

Buffy knows this show of affection is just for Candyce's benefit, but for a moment she is struck by the strength of his arm and the closeness of his body.  How firm he is.  In the fluorescent light he does appear dead to the world, his pallor made more intense by the dark clothing he wears.   But as his arm leaves her, she feels its absence and wonders why he makes a point at standing two paces away from her, and how, in just a few days' time, they have become so remote.  She knows why, though.  She can't admit it to herself now, but she knows.  She has been thinking about him as being less than human.  To her credit, he _is_.   But to his credit, he is not.  

A collective memory arises before her senses like a field of sweet scented wildflowers.  In the mornings when she is sleepy, barely functioning, not even able to walk to the cradle on steady feet, Spike is awake, albeit still under the seductive pull of drowse.  She thinks about the times when she is so exhausted and she feels she will die if she is pushed just an inch further into what, by her birthright, she is already being forced into day by day.  Spike is on patrol and he comes home, the dust of his vampire comrades still clinging to the leather of his coat.  He reaches for his son and cradles him.  "My baby," he says.  "My sweet little Daniel."

Even now as the baby is waking from his nap, Spike is quick to shush him and make him know that there is someone around to love him and care for him.  He just takes Daniel into his arms and pats his bottom, jiggling him up and down in his arms.  

"You're a good father,"  Candyce says with admiring eyes.  

"I try to be,"  Spike replies, kissing his son on the side of his face.

"Well,"  Candyce says.  "Take care of each other.  You have a great little family.  You really do."  She wheels her cart away from them, leaving the caress of her words.

Daniel is crying in short spurts against Spike's shoulder.  Spike smoothes a hand over his back.  But the baby is rooting against the cloth of his shirt and Spike gives a wearied look toward Buffy.  "I think he needs you."

Buffy's breasts are huge, full to bursting.  But suddenly she is a little needy herself.  Why does she refuse to see the man in demon's clothing, and not the demon in man's clothing?  

Her thoughts are arrested as she stares at the being with whom she has coupled many times, most memorably on a Christmas eve when she is certain they conceived their baby boy.  On the day before the most holy of holy days, she and her demon lover seeded a child.

Buffy feels such love towards the both of them her heart turns suicidal in its efforts to betray any thoughts about souls and demons and her souled demon child.  There are no demons present before her eyes.  There are only the two males she loves more than anything in the world.  Suddenly it seems very silly to be playing six degrees of separation with the Hellmouth.  If Spike's love weren't genuine, he would be gone or she would be dead.  And they certainly wouldn't have a baby.

"Buffy, he needs to feed,"  Spike insists as they baby is nearly clawing at him for sustenance.  

She nods and takes the baby into her arms.  "It's time to go home then."

The apartment is silent and dark when the pair enters.  By the lamp of an in table, there is a note written in Dawn's hand.  "At the library.  Be back @8:00."

Buffy says nothing as she passes the note into Spike's hand.  She untwines the scarf from her neck and places it on the easy chair.  She then divests herself of the heavy coat and drapes it over the chair as well.  Silently, she lifts her baby's carrier and transports Daniel into the bedroom.  Spike follows her, not knowing where this is going, but he is going with her, no matter what.  

Once in the bedroom, Buffy lifts their infant child from his seat and puts him in the cradle beside their bed.  Buffy watches the child for several minutes until she is sure that Daniel will sleep.  She nursed him on the way over.  He should be fine for a while.  

Buffy turns to Spike slowly, her face cloaked in shadow.  Her approach is measured, her feet barely making a sound as she crosses the space between them.    Standing in front of him, she cups the back of his head and she brings his mouth to hers.  For a moment, their lips are stone as though they are marble statues attempting a mating ritual in a museum after hours.  When their lips do move, they are trembling.  A dark moan is shared between them as their mouths simultaneously open for one another.  

Buffy's hands go to his back, searching for definition in the muscular space between his shoulders.  His hands are wrapped around her waist, his thumbs kneading her bared flesh where her tee shirt doesn't quite meet the top of her pants.  When his shirt comes off in her hands, he is almost as shocked as she is.  When hers follows, Spike presses his chest against her weighted breasts, allowing himself to feel the heaviness of her milk and the extent to which her breasts have grown because of it.  He groans under the influence of the peaked nipples and wonderfully formed orbs of flesh against him.  He pulls away to look at them, to appreciate them, to revel in their size and shape.  A drop of her milk escapes from her nipple and he laps it up, thinking it as sweet as cantaloupe juice.  He drops his head to her navel, his tongue circling the puckered hole while he unfastens her jeans, popping each button with agonizing slowness.  She arrests his hands and snaps his head back.  This is not about her; this is all about him.  

She gets to her knees and jerks the buckle of his jeans open in one quick motion.  She unleashes his erection and, once totally unveiled, she guides the silken head of his throbbing member into her mouth.

Fully immersed in the seemingly endless cavern of her mouth, Spike steadies himself on the dresser.  He watches her, taking him in, and he closes his eyes, reluctantly, as waves of pleasure overtake him and occlude his vision from Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, going down on him like an eager, horny teenager in a locker room with a popular jock.

Her next move spins his thought processes out of control as she lands on his back on their bed, his jeans bunched at his ankles.  Buffy doffs her own jeans, toeing  them off, along with her shoes.  Naked now, she is quick to straddle him.  In one quick stroke, she impales herself on him.

His hands rise mummy-like to catch the twin ovals of her backside, pushing her just a little deeper.  He almost cannot bear to watch, seeing himself spear her over and over again, his shaft immerging slick and wet with her juices.  

She sweeps a hand over his face and commands in a whisper, "Change."  And under her fingertips, his demon visage takes hold.  She bends to kiss his mouth, loving the feel of his teeth raking against her tongue.

She brings him closer to her, at last coercing him into a seated position, until she is sitting on his lap, her legs crossed around his backside.  She is bounding off and on him, delighted by the feel of sex again, overjoyed to know that this is who she wants to have sex with forever.

"Feed," she says.

His mouth is cracked open in a lock-jawed response to her request.  He can't stop the gyrations of his hips, not now when he's feeling her warmth and her walls closing around him.  And her need.  

She takes him by the jaw and levels her stare with his.  "Feed,"  she says again, without even a hint of fear.  She lifts her hair from her neck and bares her throat to him.

Spike shamelessly salivates as his eyes devour the throbbing cord of blood underneath her skin.  In an instant his mouth is there, his teeth drilling straight into her flesh.  Buffy gives a strangulated cry and her body goes perfectly still.  After the initial shallow piercing, his fangs delve deeper until the vein is tapped and is pouring torrents of fresh, rich blood into his mouth.  Buffy slaps her body against his, her inner muscles now clenching around him.  The combined sensations of her blood flooding his throat and her warmth enveloping him quickly force him to the edge.  He commandeers the protrusion of the hardened nubbin between her legs,, working it over and over with persistent strokes until she screams and he does as well.

Hours later, with the lavender profusion of morning straining against the blinds, Spike is still licking the wounds he has created with a loving tongue while Buffy lies asleep.   Daniel is now crying now from his cradle.  Buffy rises slowly and instantly sees a vision of bright lights.  Then her head is caught up in a dizzy sway that causes her to swoon and fall back into bed. 

Spike retrieves the baby from his cradle, placing him gently into Buffy's arms.   The child feeds hungrily from his naked mother as his equally naked father lies beside them.  Spike's mouth bears the twin v's of Buffy's blood at the corners of his mouth as he kisses them both.  

"Spike, I don't know what's coming from the hellmouth, or if anything is coming from it at all,"  Buffy says as Daniel takes more and more of her breast into her mouth.  "But I know for certain that I can't fight it without you by my side."

Warmed by the blood inside of him and by the loving green-eyed gaze of the woman at his side, he feels a sob building within him.  When it is unleashed, he spasms against her.  "I couldn't live without you.  I tried, once, and it was horrible.  Darling, please.  I want to be with you forever."

She rifles her hand though the springy curls on his head and captures his jaw with an affectionate hand.  "And I want to be with you too."

"Then marry me,"  he says so quickly and so impulsively, as the words leave his mouth, he can't believe he's hearing them.  Buffy draws in a breath, as though his proposal has pinched something deep inside of her.  He clutches her hand.    "Buffy, for all my posturings at being the subversive man for all seasons, I am an old-fashioned bloke.  And I think that if two people have a child together, they should be married."

An invisible calendar flips before her eyes.  She sees the months and the days of 2002, 2003, 2004, all leading up until her twenty-fifth birthday, the one she's not supposed to have, or, at least, the one that will her last.  Each calendar is blank, empty without him.  Her once mortal enemy lies naked in her bed and is asking her to spend the rest of her life, however long it is, with him.

"Yes,"  she says.  "I will marry you."


	20. Chapter Twenty

CHAPTER TWENTY

Spike is lying on the sofa, his new clicker in hand to the new TV Buffy bought for him when he hears the door opening. He springs up, hoping that it's her. And it is.

Today Daniel had his five-week check-up. Spike would have gone with them, but the sun's rays at 10:00 am are just too chancy and he makes himself a foreboding presence in pediatrician waiting rooms, cloaked in his Grim Reaper-like-UB-proof garb. He has spent his hours without her getting caught up with TV Land and coming to the sad conclusion that in the time he has been TV-free, the channel has removed _Hogan's Heroes_ from its daily line up. 

Buffy's cheeks are pink with the kiss of early fall. Sunny California can get quite nippy in late October. She had to walk to the doctors' and back, carrying the baby and the paper bag of pig's blood from the butcher upon her return. She sets both baby and blood on the kitchen table as Spike goes to investigate how her day went. 

"He's doing great," she says, putting the blood in the refrigerator. "He's gaining weight. He's grown an inch. Dr. Henderson was very impressed."

"Ah, I knew he had to be up to half a stone," Spike says, jiggling the fat of his son's thighs. He loves the way his son smiles at him now with a light of recognition in his eyes. 

"But there's news about our other problem child," Buffy says wearily. She unfurls a folded letter "There's going to be a parent-teacher meet and greet at the high school and I'm being summoned to attend. It's kind of like the one you went to, uninvited, about four years ago?"

"Oh right," he says. "Is Dawn in some sort of trouble at school?"

"I don't know. But I guess I'll find out there. What I'm asking you is, if I can talk Dawn into Daniel patrol, will you come with?"

"Sure. When is it?" 

"November 11. It's a Monday."

"And what time?"

"Well after sunset. Just don't bring your army this time," she says, jabbing him in the stomach with a pointing finger.

"Don't worry. I'll just bring my own charming self."

"Oh God!" Buffy says in a mad dash from the bathroom to her bedroom. "We're going to be late and I can't find my necklace!"

Spike sits on the sofa, his arms spread out behind him, and throws his head back in exasperation. "Did you check the top of the dresser?" he asks.

"First place I looked."

"Well, I'm tapped."

Buffy slides her strappy shoes on while she tears through the myriad of objects on her vanity. Pacifiers, bottles of holy water, bottles of perfume, baby bottles…no necklace.

"I think I saw it in the kitchen by the microwave," Dawn offers from the doorway.

"Oh, of course!" Buffy says. She left it there when she was nuking a Stouffers that afternoon. 

As she is hooking the clasp around her neck, she gives her final instructions to Dawn.

"There's plenty of expressed milk in the fridge in case Daniel gets hungry. And remember that it's breast milk, not regular milk, so you shouldn't put it in the microwave."

"I know, Buffy. I've fed him, like, a gazillion times," Dawn says.

"All the numbers are on cork board by the phone. Daniel's doctor, the school, poison control, the fire department."

"Jeez, Buffy! You're only going to be gone for a couple of hours! You think in that time, Daniel's going to learn to crawl, gulp down some Drano and set the place on fire?"

"I'm just taking precautions, Dawn." She looks at Daniel, sitting sweetly in his carrier, taking in the world through the twin blueberry squirts of his eyes. She has known for almost a week that she would be leaving the apartment without him for the first time, but now it's really hitting her.

Dawn sees her sister's quandary and puts a comforting arm around her shoulder. "We'll be fine, Buffy. I've got everything under control."

Time was that Buffy would be soliciting friends to look after Dawn while she ducked out for a night at the Bronze or to sneak in a quick patrol. It has been difficult for Buffy to relinquish the thought that Dawn is someone who needs to be protected all the time. But as she has to look up into her sister's face, even in her heels, it is screamingly evident that her little sister is little only in the sense that she is younger. She is a maturing young woman now with a palpable self-assurance that Buffy only wishes she had when she was that age.

Buffy places a quick kiss on her sister's cheek. "Thank you for looking after Daniel for us."

"Not a problem, Buffy. Now get going because Vice Principal Westerman hates tardiness."

"OK," Buffy says. "Spike, we're leaving," she calls into the living room.

Spike springs to his feet. "Finally. I was half-asleep from waiting."

As Spike helps Buffy into her coat, Dawn is now the one giving instructions.

"If you meet a guy named Mr. Morin, he's an idiot, so don't pay attention to a word he says."

"All right," Buffy says, making a mental note to put Mr. Morin on the top of her list of teachers to interrogate.

"And if you run across Mr. Jarman, remember that his diet consists mostly of marijuana and macrobiotics, so you really can't trust anything he says either."

"I think he was there when I was a student. He had a Grateful Dead sticker on one of the windows in his classroom."

"Now he's got a poster of a concert crowd with the words 'Jerry's Kids' written at the top."

Buffy gives one last lingering look at her son and takes a deep breath. "We won't be gone long," she says, reassuring herself as much as she is reminding Dawn.

"We're good here, Buffy. Don't worry," Dawn says softly.

Buffy nods. "You call us if you need us."

"I will."

"I'll check in with you when we get there," Buffy says.

"I'll be here."

She had no idea it would be this hard. By the time she and Spike are winding the corner to the stairs, Buffy has tears in her eyes.

"What in the hell am I going to do when I have to leave him every night?" she asks, fanning her glistening eyes with her hands.

"I know, sweetheart. But I imagine that each time after this will get a little easier," he says, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"It has to," she says, rooting through her purse from some Kleenex. "Otherwise I'll have to become a stay-at-home Slayer."

Not surprisingly, just minutes after Spike and Buffy's departure, the phone rings.

"How are things going?" Buffy asks.

"Fine," Dawn says. "Daniel and I were about to watch a little TV together."

"Has he been crying?"

"Nope. He's been perfectly quiet."

"Hold on," Buffy says before cupping a hand over the phone. "What?" Dawn hears Spike in the background. "No, honey. I don't have any Altoids." There is a grumble from Spike. "Your breath is fine, Spike. Now go in and start mingling. I'll be there in a second." Buffy sighs into the phone. "So you're doing all right?"

"Yes, Buffy. Don't worry! Everything's fine!"

"OK. But please, _please_ call if anything happens."

"I will. I promise."

"Well. I'd better go. Give Daniel an extra gentle squeeze for me."

"Um, I think I'll let you do that. I've learned that extra gentle squeezes lead to little extras in the diaper."

"I'll see you in about two hours, OK?"

"OK, Buffy."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Dawn has just put the receiver down when there is a knock at the door.

"Who can that be?" she muses aloud as she moves towards the door. Through the keyhole she discerns a fun house mirror version of her boyfriend. "Oh! Travis!" She quickly undoes the locks and throws the door open. "Hey, sweetie!" 

Travis grins. "I was just in the area. Thought I'd drop by and say 'Hi.'"

Yeah right, Dawn thinks. But at the same time she's thinking, Yay! She hasn't had any time alone with him since the day of the quake. Their meetings lately have consisted of afternoon crams at the library and open locker door chats before class. This is a pleasant surprise and she can't help smiling as she draws him into the apartment with an eager hand. 

"I wasn't doing much of anything." She scoops her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "So, I guess your parents are where Buffy and Spike are tonight."

"Huh?" he bristles.

"D'uh!" she says, slapping him playfully on the arm. "At the dreaded parent-teacher night?"

"Oh, right. That. No, they're not there."

"Yeah. I guess they just got a note that said, 'We're having this thing, but you don't have to come. Travis is perfect. We had to invent a level higher than 4.0 just for him.'"

He coughs out a laugh. "Dawn, you know I got a C in Spanish this term."

"On a daily quiz! But then you got up and read that passage from _Don Quixote_ that almost made Senora Feldman cry!"

From the sofa, Dawn hears the first bleats of dissatisfaction from Daniel, who has been as silent as a goldfish thus far. 

"Hold on," she says. The baby's sleepy lips have accidentally dislodged the Nuk from his mouth and, being too young to search for it himself, he is relying on whoever else is around to find it. "Sh…Here you are, Daniel," Dawn says, replacing the Nuk into his waiting lips. But no, this is one of those times when Daniel doesn't want suckling; he wants cuddling. As Daniel has begun to recognize the people in his life, the people in his life have become familiar with what cries mean what. "Oh. OK, Daniel. Dawnie's here." She unstraps him from the carrier and hefts him onto her shoulder, mindful to drape a cloth diaper over her shoulder in case Buffy's milk doesn't agree with him. She casts an apologetic eye towards her boyfriend who doesn't seem to know where to place his stare.

"I'm sorry, Travis. This is kind of like a forced meeting, isn't it?" she asks, remembering his post-quake confession about baby Michael and the emotion in his voice as he talked about him.

"No. No, I've w-wanted to meet D-Daniel," Travis stammers, moving towards them. He extends an index finger for the newborn greeting of five tiny digits around his nearly fully grown one. "Hello, Daniel." He smiles into the not-quite-there expression of the baby. "So you're calling him Daniel?"

"Just Daniel for now," she says. "We're avoiding Danny because…well, it's not who he is so far." She doesn't disclose that Danny is too close to _Danny Boy_ and therefore is too reminiscent of the Gaelic song which harks back to someone both mother and father don't want to be reminded of. "And Dan is a grown up name. Right now he's Daniel or The Baby."

Travis nods. Or Savior, he thinks, conscious of the bottle of chloroform contained in the inside pocket of his letterman's jacket.

Buffy walks into the night shadowed commons room of the new Sunnydale High School where many suited and long-lengthed floral gown forty-something parents are meeting their children's teachers. She knows automatically that she is overdressed for the occasion in her top-of-the-knee-skimming black dress with shoulder-baring spaghetti straps. 

Spike stands alone. Momentarily, Buffy wonders if Spike, as the poor poet William, was once the kind of geeky wallflower awaiting a girl to ask him to dance. But as she approaches him, she wonders how that could be. She coaxed him into wearing his deep blue silk button down and gray flannel pants tonight. In this carnation he looks so handsome that covetously she thinks, _He's mine._

"There you are," he says. He strips the stickyback from a nametag and pastes it on her dress. Miss Buffy Summers, he has written in his careful left-handed script.

She reads the nametag on Spike's chest and cocks an eyebrow. "Hello your name is William Hogan?"

"It is tonight," he says. "I like the sound of it. Sort of old Hollywood."

"Uh huh," Buffy says, acknowledging her boyfriend's non-sexual crush on Colonel Hogan and all his heroes. "And has Mr. Hogan met anyone here yet?"

"Mr. Hogan was waiting for Miss Summers to show him around," he says, clasping his fingers around hers.

"We'll circulate, then."

Automatically, a curly-haired woman with sun-influenced lines of her face disengages herself from the couple she was speaking with and walks over to Buffy and Spike. 

"Miss Summers?" the woman asks.

"Yes?" Buffy turns.

"Miss Summers. We met briefly at the start of Dawn's freshman year. You were, understandably, reoccupied," the woman says. "I'm Vice Principal Westerman."

Buffy can excuse herself from not remembering this woman. When Dawn was about to start high school Buffy was working both jobs and slacking off on her parenting duties. She has a vague memory of going to the school on a hot day and paying the book fees with a money order as she hoped her mother's insurance money would stretch a little further.

"Oh! Vice Principal Westerman!" Buffy says. "Nice to see you again." 

"And you are?" Vice Principal Westerman asks, nodding towards Spike. 

"Well, this is…" Buffy regards her lover. She smiles and says, "This is my fiancé, William."

Spike hears the appellation with a joy in his would-be soul, the words inspiring a lift in his step as he reaches to shake hands with Mrs. Westerman. "Pleasure to meet you."

"And you as well. Now," Mrs. Westerman says with a vexing look, "You're not the Spike Dawn has talked about in my office, are you?"

"Um," Spike says, wondering about just what Dawn has said about him. "I don't know." 

Mrs. Westerman smiles. "Don't be so scared. What she's said is all good. But she didn't tell me that the two of you were engaged."

"We just announced it," Buffy says, grinning up at her betrothed.

"Congratulations!" 

"Thank you," the pair mumbles with a sudden bashfulness.

"Now, from what I understand, Mr. Hogan, you have been acting as a guardian for Dawn since her mother's death?"

"Yes, that's right," Spike says guardedly. 

"Dawn in such a bright student. But I've been concerned about certain behaviors she has been exhibiting in class. Some teachers have told me that she's been lethargic to the point of falling asleep during lectures. But through my talks with Dawn, I also know that you have a newborn in the household."

"Yes, that's true," Buffy apologizes. "Sp---William and I _do _have a baby. He's just six weeks old."

"So I imagine she has been kept awake by the new arrival?"

"She's in charge of third shift," Spike explains to Vice Principal Westerman. "Buffy takes 9:00-1:00, I take 1:00 to 5:00 and then Dawn wakes up at 5:00 and takes over until she goes to school, unless Daniel sleeps through the night, which he's been getting better and better at," Spike says, looking lovingly at Buffy. "I suppose everyone needs a chance at being good."

"That is true," vice principal Westerman echoes Buffy's thoughts. "I was just concerned that there might be something else in Dawn's life influencing her sudden dip in productivity."

"She has a boyfriend. They go out. But she's home by eleven every night. She has a strict curfew. _William_ and I don't let her deviate from that. Especially on school nights," Buffy says resolutely. 

"She doesn't party?" Mrs. Westerman asks.

"Not on our watch," Buffy says. 

"Some parents, even those who think they know their children well, really _don't_ know. And for a sister, taking over parenting duties, I imagine it's been very difficult for her to accept you as an authoritative figure in her life."

"Oh no. It's not like that at all. She's always looked up to me, even before Mom died." Buffy still wonders why when she mentions her mother died it's as though she is saying it for the first time. "Dawn tells us everything. She's very honest," Buffy says. 

"She talks to me quite a bit after school," Spike says. "We have our routine when she gets home. I always have a nice, healthy snack prepared for her. Some veggies and juice. Maybe a bit of protein, if I think there is some lacking from her diet. Then we talk. Just this afternoon the two of us were watching a public affairs program on TV and afterwards the two of us had a spirited discussion about personal freedoms in this democratic society of ours." Spike leaves out the fact that the public affairs show they were watching was actually _Judge Judy _andthe high protein healthy snack they shared consisted of Hershey Special Dark miniatures dipped in peanut butter.

A short, slightly balding man sidles up to Vice Principal Westerman. Automatically, Buffy is thinking not so warm thoughts of Principal Snyder. But this man is not so the sniveling Ferengi of a man he was. His teeth are straight and his eyes do not bead. 

"The parents of Jill Carlesco are here," he whispers.

"Oh." Mrs. Westerman's face loses all expression. "Listen, I have to take this one. I'm glad that we talked. And if it's any comfort to you, I raised three sons of my own. Before you know it, your baby will be grown. Then you'll have a teen-ager to deal with all over again," she says, excusing herself with a gentle squeeze of Buffy's hand. "Take care."

Buffy's insides are momentarily convulsing from the thought of another teenager to raise when she glances at Spike. His mouth is slack, open to one side. He looks as though he has been struck in the back of the head by a two by four. 

"What?" she asks.

"So we're telling people now?" he asks.

"Telling people _what_?" she asks coyly. 

He clinches his jaw. "You said I was your fiancé."

"Well, you _are_," she says, linking her arm with his. "I just wanted to see how it sounded."

"And how did it sound?" he asks, nuzzling his nose against hers. 

"It sounded perfect," she smiles.

They have not spoken fully about what transpired that night. Spike felt---and is still feeling---a great deal of grief, filling himself with her blood and marking her just millimeters above where Angel left his brand. She hid under turtleneck sweaters for a week and treated the wound with plenty of Neosporin. Tonight is the first time she has attempted to wear something neck-baring. The bite is pink now, just barely visible. And what he asked her that night. He often thinks that his proposal was taken as drunk talk in a bar near closing time. It wasn't how he had dreamed of his proposal. His Willow-induced spell had produced a better, more romantic asking of her hand. He wanted to tell her how much she meant to him and how pointless his unlife would be without her. But what he said sufficed. She did say yes. He has often wondered if she meant yes, though.

They have not informed everyone about their engagement. A giddy, blood-engorged Spike rattled off the news to Dawn over breakfast the next morning when Buffy and Daniel were still sleeping and she leaped into his arms, peppering his face with kisses. Buffy is as excited as any girl about her impending nuptials and she hopes that Spike is not taking her reticence about it as indifference. She imagines that if they did not live together and see each other every day that she might feel a little differently. For one thing, she has Dawn to act out some of her enthusiasm for her. Since she was told about the engagement Dawn has been hauling home thick bridal magazines and studying them with a connoisseur's eye. She has already chosen the bridesmaids gowns. Swiss blue, floor-length, off the shoulder, something that the attendants really could wear again without looking like they are about to take the stage in a production of the _Nutcracker_. She has picked out the bouquets: porcelana spray roses, light blue delphinium, pink astilbe, nerine lilies and lavender freesia. She has all but booked the caterer and chosen a honeymoon site for them. 

"We have to do something about your finger, though," Spike says.

"Why? What's wrong with it?" she asks, still a little subconscious about physical flaws in the wake of Spike's passionate love bite.

"It doesn't have a ring on it."

"Oh, yeah," she blushes. "The ring. You should probably choose something that won't interfere with the slaying. A band ring. Maybe something with a little swirl of diamonds imbedded in it. Like the stars in a Van Gogh painting."

"Uh huh?" he says, his spirits buoyed. 

"Just a little something. The karat weight isn't that much. Just 1/2. But it's set in platinum."

"And just where might I find this ring?" he asks.

"At Conrad's on---" She hasn't wanted to discuss rings because an engagement ring should cost two months' salary and he doesn't have that. "Anything you buy for me will be nice. I don't need a ring to tell the world I'm marrying the love of my life," she says, her eyes shining.

"Darling, when has getting something for someone I love been an issue for me? You know I always find a way somehow. I'll get you something nice," he promises with a kiss as he rubs his knuckles against the back of her head. "So, I suppose the next step after securing a ring is setting a date."

"I've thought about that," Buffy says. "I definitely think that we should wait until Daniel is a little less booby-centric. I mean, right now he's smacking his lips when he wants me."

"Oh, so is that the secret?" Spike asks, smacking his own lips as he draws her close to him.

"Honey, do you think we should call Dawn again?" she asks. "This is her first time alone with the baby."

"Buffy," he says, exasperated. "You just finished telling that Westerman chit that we trusted Dawn. Let's show the Little Bit that we do trust her. I'm sure she's doing a great job with Daniel."

"I think I've got him settled down," Dawn says as she walks into the living room. "He was awake all last night. I think he's exhausted. Hopefully." She plops down next to Travis. "How are you?"

I'm terrified, he wants to say. He clears his throat as Dawn snuggles against him on the sofa. "I'm OK."

"Mmmm," Dawn says, cuddling up to him. "You have such a nice chest. But your heart is, like, running a race." She raises her head to meet his. "What's wrong?"

"Just happy to see you," he says. "And be near you."

"Aw, honey!" she says, diving towards his mouth for a kiss. She whispers against his lips. "I love you."

"And I love you too," Travis says. He looks into her trusting, affection-dappled face and has to turn away, halting his tears by closing his eyes. "I love you so much."

"Travis," she cajoles, fastening both hands on either side of his face. "What's wrong?"

_So much. Everything. I wish you didn't love Daniel so. I wish _I_ didn't love you so_, he thinks. 

Now he is thinking about the church. He has seen it himself. There is a black hole where there was once a sanctuary. There is a hissing of fire replacing songs of praise. 

_We're all going to hell_, he reminds himself. _We're all going to hell._

"Dawn, we've been together for over a year. And I care about you more than anyone in the world," Travis says. 

"I care about you too, Travis," Dawn says warily, wondering where this is going. He is either going to break up with her or confirm their commitment. Either way, she's scared to death. 

_Why did we have to come back here? Why did my mother make me seek out the Slayer? And why did I have to fall in love with Dawn? _ "I was thinking the other night that you and I have been together for over a year and I haven't given you anything to mark our anniversary."

_A prezzy! He has a prezzy for me!_ Dawn's heart instantly begins to thunder. "OK," she says giddily.

"So I did something about that today," he says, sweat springing out over his brow.

Dawn observes the slim sliver of a velvet box produced from Travis' pocket. "Oh my God!" she squeals.

"Let me put it on you." He draws in a breath. "Turn your head. And close your eyes."

Dawn does as instructed, awaiting the cool of his present around her neck. She was thinking envious thoughts just this night when Buffy was searching for the necklace Spike had given her. The omni-present watch has been a temporal reminder of Spike's love for her sister. Dawn has often dreamed that a boyfriend of hers would place something just as meaningful around her neck. Given the wealth of Travis' family and the extent of his largesse when he and the gang go to the coffee shop, she is expecting something big. Something measured in karats. Something that a jeweler would drop his loop about.

Something else other than what happens.

A cloth is clapped against her mouth, cupped by a fierce hand. She screams against it, hearing her own muffled, useless words. She tries to breathe. There is no breath in her lungs. There is only the cloth before her nose and the boy behind her. Her nails dig, bite into the flesh of his forearms. No breath. She draws in nothing. Her nails are growing soft. They are liquid against skin. There is a brief hum and then nothing but blackness.

Travis catches her, slack limbs falling all at once in his arms. Her face is perfectly still, her eyes closed. The cloth is still on her and he dispenses of it as though ridding himself of the used bandages from an oozing wound.

She is near the sofa, so he places here there, positioning her against a throw pillow. He puts her hand against her chin. She looks like she has fallen asleep watching TV. That's just the effect he was hoping for.

He walks into the bedroom, his heartbeat never more evident. There is only his heartbeat and the remembering to breathe. He has to tell himself to breathe or he will forget. His heart throbs and his breath, when it comes, is slow and labored. He fears he will pass out.

Before him is the bed where the Slayer and the vampire sleep. He wasn't expecting just a bed. He was thinking that he might find a coffin or a bar where the vampire might hang by his feet when he sleeps. This is new knowledge to him. The Slayer and the vampire sleep in a bed together. Under the lamp of one bedside table is a paperback copy of _What to Expect in the First Year _with a miniature Krackle wrapper marking a place 1/3 the way. There is a glass with a frosted lip-gloss kiss. On the other bedside table, beside where the vampire lays his head, is a display of pictures, one of Buffy, one of Dawn, one of the three of them with the baby.

Then there is the baby.

His purpose here, lying sweetly, in the swaddling clothes of a terrycloth sleeper. The baby is sleeping. When Travis gathers him up, Daniel kicks slightly. Travis didn't anticipate the humanness of the baby. When he picked him up, he expected to feel a pointy tail stabbing his arm or a rising howl from the hell the child was supposed to have been born from. Instead, the child randomly tests his muscles and molds his form against Travis' chest, nestling his head trustingly against his kidnapper's shoulder. 

The trip back to the carrier is short. Travis puts him in, straps him down. The baby sleeps. But what about Dawn? Is she sleeping? Or is she…?

Did he smother her to death? He checks the vein on her neck. Still pulsating. 

"Forgive me," he whispers as he kisses her on her forehead. 

Travis hooks his arm under the arch of the carrier. He looks down at the baby, his mind hammered by thoughts of the ruined church and the innocent child. He sucks back a sob.

And he takes the baby away. 

"I think that went well," Buffy says, approaching the door of their apartment. 

"It was all right," Spike says.

"Oh, come on. You hated every minute of it," Buffy says, relaxing against the door.

"There were only a few minutes I truly hated and they were the ones without you," he says, his lips fixed for a kiss.

She is perfectly content to make out in the doorframe, but as she returns his kiss, a neighbor walks by in a housecoat, mottled skin pouring over into her bedroom slippers. 

"Hi, Mrs. Garcia!" Buffy says. "We're engaged!"

The woman mutters something under her breath in Spanish that Buffy can only interpret as, "It's about time."

"We'd better go in," Buffy suggests.

"Yeah, we should," Spike answers, kissing her chin, her cheek, her forehead.

"Stop it," she urges half-heartedly.

"Hmmmm…" is his return as he finds a fitting kissing spot on her collarbone.

Surreptitiously she slips her key into the deadbolt and opens the door.

Automatically, they are greeted by the darkness of the apartment. The TV is still on, pulsating colored light into the blackness. 

"I can't believe that we're this lucky. Daniel's asleep?" Buffy whispers incredulously.

"Dawn too," Spike says, pointing to the teenager's prone form on the sofa.

"Wow," Buffy remarks as she heads for the bedroom. 

Spike sweeps a hand against Dawn's stilled features. She is so soundly asleep that she doesn't notice his presence. 

There is a scream. One that makes Spike think his spine is being split in half by a razor driven up his back

Buffy rushes towards him, brandishing a yellow blanket. Daniel's blanket. 

"Daniel's gone!" Buffy howls. "Daniel's gone!"

Buffy tears at the air like a sightless and deaf wild child only to be caught up in the safety of Spike's arms. He cannot assure her. He cannot even begin to comfort her. 

He can only cry with her.


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

            "Take it down, Willow.  Hurry!"  Spike demands from outside the invisible barrier than prevents him from entering the Singleton's home without an invitation.

            Willow is beyond responding now, all black eyes and incantations.  With three final oaths, the barrier is down and Spike hurls himself into the cavernous hulk of the Singleton's pristine entryway and into the arms of the two girls waiting for him on the other side.

            Once again he is forced to decide which one is more pitiful as he feels their twin embrace.  His girl Buffy, robbed and bereft; his girl Dawn humiliated and betrayed.  Buffy is still holding Daniel's yellow blanket; Dawn is still swaying towards unconsciousness from the chloroform.    Spike is embracing two reasons to reclaim the murderous instinct in him.  Tonight, blood will be shed.  Travis, and whoever else is responsible for this, will die.  

"There's no one here,"  Xander reports, hopping from the third stair to the floor of the entryway.  "I checked all the bedrooms, all the bathrooms.  Even the closets."

"And there's no one in the basement,"  Giles says, emerging from the crawl space under the stairs without so much as a cobweb on him.

"I didn't think there would be anyone here," Spike says.  "But what _is_ here is the reason why Daniel was taken and where he is now."

"So what's the plan?"  Xander asks.

"The plan is to find the son of a bitch who stole Daniel from us," Spike says coolly.  "And for that, we need each and every one of you.  Giles, I see you've brought a good chunk of your library and that's good.  What you haven't put to memory, you memorize tonight.  You look up anything, anything that might tell us why…"  He lets Giles fill in the ellipses.  The mere mention of the word _sacrifice_, he fears_,_ will be too much for Buffy, who appears to be teetering on the edge of catatonia.   "Willow, there's a laptop up in Travis' room.  You hack away at it, take a bloody sledgehammer to it if you think that would work.  Look in all the files, all his internet histories.  Tara, I need for you to do some sort of locating spell, if you have the materials for it.  Xander, Anya, you're on patrol.  You take the Northside.  Buffy and I will take the Southside."

Spike regards the gathering in front of him, a veritable cross section of the populace who would never, ever see the inside of these Waverly-covered walls.  The hour after Dawn drowsily loosed the name of the kidnapper from her lips was spent traipsing through the halls of Sunnydale Heights, knocking on door after door.  _Our baby is missing.  Did you see anyone?  Did you hear anything?   _No, was the constant refrain they heard from the strangers living under their roof.  Then they made the calls to their friends.  _Our baby is missing._  No, was the response then as well, but also, what can we do to help?  They didn't call 911.  These people gathered here _are_ their 911.

He takes a breath as he struggles to keep the tears in check.  "I know there are those among you who are not overjoyed that the Slayer and I are together.  But I ask you, I beg you to put aside any prejudices you may have and realize that Daniel needs to be with the people who love him and not with strangers who might wish to harm him."  He turns to Buffy now, finding her expression vacant, but something there is still locked into that warrior strength that nothing on earth could subdue.  "We're going to find him, at all costs."  He walks his fingers up the ridge of Buffy's jawline, at length stroking her cheek as he promises her,  "We're going to find him." 

As the group disperses, Tara takes Buffy gently by the arm.  "Um, if I'm going to do a locating spell, something that belongs to Daniel, something that _was _close to him, would help.  Could I use the blanket?  Just f-for a while?"  

Buffy's eyes respond a clear no.  Her arms grip the blanket tighter.

"Give us a second, Tara,"  Spike says.  He takes Buffy by the shoulders and positions her right in front of him so that she can only see him, though her eyes remain somewhere else.  "Darling, Tara wants to help us.  She needs a bit of Daniel to do that.  Won't you give her the blanket, just for now?  Just until she can find Daniel for us.  And she will give the blanket right back.   Won't you, Tara?"

"Of course,"  Tara is quick to respond.

Buffy regards the yellow blanket and smoothes her hands down the soft fragrant surface of the flannel.  Breathing the scent once again, she slowly hands it over to Tara.

"You won't let anything happen to him…it, will you?"  Buffy says.

"Never,"  Tara says, her eyes spilling over with tears.  "Never.  And I'm so sorry."

"Sorry,"  Buffy says.  "Sorry.  I'm sorry."

Spike dismisses Tara with a wave of his hand.  "Why are you sorry, sweetheart?" he asks as he draws Buffy close to him.

She levels her stare at the floor, her eyes nearly closing.  "Because Daniel has to be my child," is all she says.

Xander is the next to clarify his mission for the night.  He clears his throat, making his presence known.  

"Spike, I don't think I've ever seen Travis before.  I could use a little help description-wise."

"Tall, mop-headed, bloody stupid, has my kid,"  Spike says angrily.  "That should give you something to work from.  You've a cell phone, don't you?"

"Yeah.  Anya too."

"Good.  We should stay in touch as much as possible on patrol.  If I could borrow either yours or Anya's."

"Sure.  Anything you need."

Spike runs his fingers through the fading highlighted strands of Buffy's hair and kisses her on the forehead.  He feels her arms tighten around him, almost of their own volition, like the need in her is acting without her body's permission.  "And if you do find that minger, you bring him to me.  Straight away."

 "No!"  Dawn says, breathing heat like an angered bull, pitted against a matador who has now fled the arena leaving only the memory of the red cape.  "When you find Travis, bring him to _me_.  _I'm _going to kill him."

A coolness descends as everyone, collectively, realizes she means what she's saying and if she goes through with it, they will all have to look the other way.

A chilly wind gently unsettles a pile of leaves, sending them skittering across the naked surface of the cement sidewalk.  Travis feels the breeze on his bare calves and thinks the child in his arms may be cold as well.  He knows he should have brought the yellow blanket with him, but there just didn't seem to be enough time to put everything together.  Every second he was there, he felt that Buffy and Spike were right behind the door, about to pop in unannounced.   It was their right to, being their apartment.  He was the trespasser.  Dying young is not on his list of things to do and he is certain that if they had caught him, he would not be sitting on this park bench, under the spread of an oak's aged limbs, rocking their baby slowly, sending soothing "Sh's" into the quiet of the night.

"It's going to be all right.  Hush, Daniel,"  he says, though the baby isn't crying.  The baby seems to be adjusting just fine to the stranger who has taken him from his home to come and sit under the stars as fate awaits them both in a church just one block away.  "Don't cry, Daniel.  Please don't cry.  It'll be all right."  He puts the baby's head to rest on his shoulder as the darkness in front of him begins to shimmer with prisms of light and tears soak his eyes.   "It's going to be all right.  Don't worry.  We're all going to be OK."

Inside St. Catherine's Chapel, the sanctuary burns.  

Where pews once stood on either side of the aisle, there is now a pit of fire, its flames licking within a tongue's distance of the altar where Reverend Estey stands in rapture, his eyes closed, his arms out-stretched, his flowing ecclesiastical gowns coming close to being ripped away from his body by the flames, or at least singed.   Along the perimeter of the pit where there is still flooring, the congregation stands, holding hands, entranced by the intense fire before them as they chant over and over, "The child will come.  The child will come.  The child will come."

Phyllis Wright drops her chin to her chest and begins to sob.  Samantha Singleton, who is standing beside her, wrests her thoughts from the incantations and grips the woman's hand tight enough to break her knuckles. 

"You fool!  Keep chanting!"  Samantha Singleton orders. 

"I know.  But it's so horrible.  All this.  I feel like I'm going to hell anyway if we go through with this,"  the woman manages to choke out. 

"You _are_ going to hell, you witch.   And speaking of which, I hope you made that cloaking spell nice and tight on the child.  The Slayer has very powerful witches on her side.  More powerful than you,  Phyllis.  Or should I call you Helena?" 

"I'm not a witch,"  Phyllis Wright mutters.

"What?"  Mrs. Singleton wrenches the delicate bones in Phyllis Wright's hand until they are nearly snapping in her grasp.

"I'm not a witch!"  she reiterates as she crumples to her knees from the pain of Samantha Singleton's lethal handshake.  "I just have a few things in my store for spells.  That's all."

"So you're not a witch?"  Samantha asks.

"No, I never was!"  Phyllis Wright says in agony.  "I just did some experimenting in college like everyone."

"But you did do the cloaking spell, didn't you?"

"Well…"  Phyllis Wright answers in a whisper, too low to be heard above the roar of the fire.  

"Didn't you?"  

"I did!  But I don't know if it worked."

Samantha Singleton administers one last squeeze to Phyllis' hand, this time helping her to her feet.  "You better hope it did.  Or else, there will be hell to pay.  And you, my friend, will be the one holding the tab."

Xander and Anya are stopped at a traffic light on Oak Street.  Three teenagers, two female, the other male, make their way through the crosswalk.  They cannot hear their laughter from inside the car, but they can see it on their faces.  

"Wow, look at that,"  Xander says.

"Xander, I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at lean, lithe adolescent bodies and saying, 'Wow,'"  Anya says.

"What?  No.   I was just thinking, it's a Monday night.  They're happy.  They're going somewhere.  Probably to the Bronze.  Or to the movies.  You know where I would be going on a Monday night when I was in high school?  To the library at school, to either learn about a new apocalypse or to plan on fighting one."

"So you're saying that you were robbed of all the good times associated with youth because of your friendship with Buffy?"

"You're putting words in my mouth."

"Which words?"

"Those words saying I was robbed of good times because of my friendship with Buffy."

"I didn't say that.  You did."  

"Uh, no.  You were the one suggesting that my youth was misspent because I spent too much time with Buffy."

"No, I didn't say that, either."

The light turns green and Xander proceeds through the intersection.  In this residential part of Sunnydale, people are in their homes, watching television, preparing for bedtime.  Some houses are displaying scarecrows and pumpkins out on their lawns to celebrate the coming harvest of Thanksgiving.  These people have actual lives in which they wake up, go to work, come home, have dinner, watch TV and go to bed.  Xander wakes up, goes to work, comes home, has dinner, goes to a Scooby meeting, and goes to bed very late if he is patrolling.   He kills vampires with a well-placed stake and watches them dissolve into dust.  He comes home and wakes to his alarm and goes back to work, often late.  His supervisor has suspected that he is moonlighting.  He is.  He slays vampires and demolishes demons by the light of the moon.

 "I don't know what I would do," Xander says,  "if someone took my baby…"

"I know what I would do,"  Anya says.  "I would infest the kidnapper with some boils.  Maybe some visible tumors, since they are not as drainable as boils.  And then I would call D'Hoffryn and let him take over.  Because I think in a situation like that, I would go straight to the top for the big finish."

They are heading for another intersection.  To their right is the looming presence of St. Catherine's Chapel.  The parking lot is full.  And the stained glass windows glow from within.

"Big going's on at the church tonight,"  Xander says.  "Guess they're so filled with the Holy Spirit on Sunday it spills over into Monday."

"We should pull over,"  Anya says.  

"Here?  There's probably nothing but a whole lot of potato salad and KFC chicken going on in the fellowship hall."  

"Is it normal for a congregation to have a barbeque inside a church?"

"No.  Not really."

"Then why did I just see flames shoot out of one of the lower windows?"

Xander quickly swerves into the church parking lot.

A quick peek through the open slat of a stained glass window tells them that they haven't stopped for nothing.

"We'd better call Buffy,"  Xander says, his white-washed faced aglow in the light of the flames.

Tick tick tick.

That's all Spike hears as he and Buffy roam the wooded fringes of Sunnydale's city limits.  It is so quiet tonight he can hear the throbbing of his ladylove's heart and the ticking of the timepiece he fashioned into a necklace for her.

Tick, tick, tick.

He can hear the watch wherever it is.  Buffy often places the watch on her bedside table right before she goes to sleep.  Sometimes she wears it to bed.  Sometimes she leaves it where she can't lay her hands on it.  Dawn had to help her find it before they left for the Parent-Teacher night at the high school.  He knew where it was.  He wanted her to find it.  Though she may mislay it on occasion, it is never off her throat for long.  During lovemaking, it swings like a pendulum before his eyes, turning the physical act of love into a nearly hypnotic experience for him.  While Angel gave her a cross, her second vampire lover gifted her with something that would protect her from nothing, except tardiness.  But it has always been for him more than a mere timepiece.   It is not just his last material link to the days of poor poet William, nor is it just his legacy to pass onto his progeny.  The watch is his heart, ticking for her.

Tick, tick, tick.

He swats a knobby stick at the underbrush in front of him, allowing the two of them to pass without getting tangled up in roots and leaves.  "There's a clearing up ahead.  Just some stumps from the logger's clear-cutting.  We should try there."    

"Daniel had hiccups today,"  Buffy says suddenly.

He is startled by the sound of her voice.  He hasn't heard her speak since she screamed the words, _Daniel's gone…Daniel's gone…_

_"_What's that, Pet?"  he asks.

Her chin trembles.  Since she peered into the vestige where her child has been kept safe and sound, after her mind erupted and her heart bled from violent pulses that still have not stopped, everything around her has arranged itself into a single chord, a D-Minor strike of a piano plucked continuously by a phantom hand.  The sound of her own voice comes as a surprising interlude in the piece.  "He had hiccups," she says again.

"Daniel hiccups a lot,"  Spike says.

"He hiccupped and I remembered.  I remembered what it was like to have him inside of me.  The way his body was moving.  And I couldn't do anything about it.  He kept hiccupping for about ten minutes and then he spit up and I wiped his mouth and he fell asleep.  And I kissed him and I thought that was the greatest thing.  Falling asleep in my arms.  And I went to sleep too.  I don't know how long we slept, but it felt like forever."

About two hours, he recalls.  He knows this because he spent the entire time catching the phone on the first ring and then shushing Dawn when she bounded in from school.    He is trying to remember the look of peace on her face because now all he sees is the empty cradle.

 "I don't remember a thing about when I was born,"  Buffy continues in a desolate voice.  "I don't even remember recognizing Mom as Mom and Dad as Dad.  I just trusted that these people were my parents because they took care of me.  And Dawn.  I have such vivid memories of her being a baby.  I know they're not true, but I remember her being small, like Daniel, and taking her into my arms."  Buffy shakes her head.  "But Daniel.  I felt him grow inside of me.  I saw him come from me."   She wants to clutch at something, something that is his.  But she doesn't have his blanket anymore.  "Spike, I did this."

"Buffy don't---

"No, I mean it.  Think about it.  Dawn was given to me so that I could protect her from Glory.  Daniel was given to me for---

"We don't know why Daniel was taken,"  Spike says

"Oh, come on, Spike.  I wasn't just plucked from the Slayer patch yesterday.  I've been at this a long, long time.  You and I both know why Daniel was taken.  That's why we're out here, searching in the woods.  You've been avoiding the word sacrifice all night, but I know.  My life is all about sacrifice.  The baby of a vampire and a Slayer is just ripe for sacrifice.  And I wasn't there to protect him."

No, he can't shield the truth from her.  She knows the truth too well, having looked into the empty cradle.

She shakes her head.  "We should have never brought a child into the world, not into _my_ world."

"Buffy, please don't talk like that."

"I mean it, Spike.  We're just as guilty as Travis for what's happened to Daniel."

"Now, look!"  he says in a near growl, seizing her by the shoulders.  "We are not in the wrong here, Buffy.  Daniel wasn't born out of anything except for our love for each other.  You know that."

She is still not hearing him.  "Spike, if something has happened to him, if he is…gone, I'll---

"Buffy!"

"---die,"  she finishes quietly.

For a split second in time, he is moved by the sight of a fading spark in her green and gold eyes.  He has seen this look of terror before, followed by the issuance of acceptance.  He saw it in the adolescent Chinese Slayer's eye right before she begged him to tell her mother she was sorry.  He saw it in the flashes between light and dark in the subway car in New York, when he twisted the neck of his second Slayer.  Five years ago, this barely perceptible change in expression would have sent him howling with victory.  But today he is almost too frightened to move or speak.  This is Buffy's breaking point.  This is the thing that will kill her.

She drops her head, burying her face in her hands, the sound of her muffled sobs obscuring all other noises.

The cruelty of life's irony is laid bare in front on him in the shaking form of his one true love.  For the year leading up to the consummation of his affection for her, he thought that his unrequited passion was the punishment for the years he ran, unscathed and unpunished, from all his past misdeeds.  But now he knows this; the reciprocation can be just as harsh.  Just looking at her brings up a host of the unholy terrors he committed before she touched him and stilled the violence in his demon and made a template of her own soul in his vacuous tomb of a body.  He doesn't have to wonder what kind of person would steal a child from its home and spirit him away in the night.  He once was such a being.  In his time he has killed infants, just for the sheer thrill of hearing their mothers' beg and plead, leaving them to live with the sounds of their children's own death rattles lingering on in memory.  Tonight a mother went to her baby's cradle and found nothing but a yellow blanket.  He caught her as her grief overpowered her; he held her as realization overcame her.  And he felt the pummeling blows of a million castigations delivered in one fell swoop.

Tick, tick, tick.

But he also knows this; as he was eventually caught for his sins, so will this evil creature who has their son in his clutches.  He just wants for her to know that too.  

Spike pulls her to him now, murmuring softly into her hair, easing kisses onto her forehead.  "Oh, Buffy…don't fade out on me now, sweetheart.  Daniel needs us too much.  He needs us to be strong, so that we can find him.  And when this mess is all over, then we can fall apart.  But not now.  Our child's life is at stake."

Buffy breaks from him long enough to stare up into his calm, reasoning visage.  "I know, but---

"Sh…"  he says, putting a finger to her lips.  "No protests, love.  We will get our son back."

He is momentarily distracted by a shrill ringing from the inside pocket of his duster.  It takes him a while to remember that he has Anya's cell phone.  "See?  I'll bet that's shop girl and monkey boy now, telling us they've found him."

He answers the phone with this anticipation, only to hear Xander panting breathlessly on the other end.

"Spike, you've got to get back to the Singleton's house.  Right now!"

"You've found him?  He's there?"  Spike asks hopefully.

"No.  But I think we know where he's headed."

Relying on all the preternatural speed the two of them can muster, Buffy and Spike arrive back at the Singleton's house less than five minutes after Xander's phone call.

They find him, along with Anya and the others, crowded in living room.

"What did you find?"  is Spike's immediate question.

"All I can say is the congregation of St. Catherine's Chapel has opened a big can of hell stew."

"They've _what_?"  Spike asks. 

Dawn comes forward now.  "On the day of Anya's wedding, there was a rumbling in the basement.  I felt it.  I was going to tell Buffy about it, but the wedding was about to start.  Then Buffy went into labor and I must have forgotten about it," Dawn says.  "On the day of the quake, Travis' parents went straight to the church.  It was damaged pretty bad."

"That's where the new Hellmouth is," Buffy deducts.

"Not a Hellmouth," Giles says.  "From Xander and Anya's description, it sounds more like an open door, not to just a hell dimension, but to the sort of hell written about in the Bible."

"Oh God, Daniel,"  Buffy says in a near swoon.

"Did you see---?"  Spike begins.

Xander shakes his head.  "We didn't see Daniel anywhere."

Spike turns his probing gaze to Tara.

"The locating spell went awry,"  Tara explains.  Willow and I both tried.  If what we w-were tracking was Daniel, Tr-travis is moving around a lot, but never in a straight line.  It's like he doesn't have a destination."

"But he will,"  Spike says darkly.  "And we better get to it before he does."

"Don't bother," a voice says from the doorway.  "I'm not going anywhere."

All eyes turn.  It is as though, collectively, they are all seeing a ghost and each viewer is putting his mind through a reality check before the figure can be fully perceived.  But what they are seeing is real.   

Travis Singleton is standing there, the purloined and pacified child held fast in his arms.   


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Buffy makes a strangulated cry as she crosses the distance between her and her baby, collecting him from the arms of his abductor as though bringing to light something precious from antiquity.  Mere seconds tick by before hatred overtakes her hazel-eyed stare.  Before she can pass the infant into someone else's arms, a fist she hoped would be hers flies in Travis' face.

"You fucking bastard!"  Spike screams as he lands another punch against Travis' cheek.  The teenager lies crumbled on the carpeted floor, breathing blood from his nose.  Spike lifts him effortlessly and swipes his face across the row of infuriatingly cheerful Hummel figurines, sending them all to the floor.  

As he is held, squirming, from a loop of his cargo pants, Travis begs, "Please don't kill me."

"'Please don't kill me'?  Do you know how often I've heard that?  And do you know how often that plea has worked on me?"  Spike rams the boy's head into the glass of the bookshelf in front of him.   "If you answered never, you win!"

"Spike, stop!"  Dawn orders in a head-clutching howl.

He looks at Dawn, his actions ceased by the passion of her words.  He is almost ready to say he is sorry, but then…

"This is my fight!"  Dawn says through clenched teeth.

What happens next could be the rapture of her betrayal, or the long dormant power of her Keyness coming into play.  Or it could be the fact that a woman wronged is rising above the girl everyone thought she was and is showing herself in a roar of rage.  She strikes one blow against his cheek that sends him flying across the room, crashing into a pink and white striped wingback chair

"You used me!" she screams as she plucks him up by the collar of his Eddie Bauer button down.  "You said you loved me!"  

"And…I…do…" Travis says, clutching at the tightening collar around his throat.  "You liar!" is her retort as she punches him again.

Travis spits out a fountain of blood, looking surprised to not find a stray tooth or two contained within the scarlet spray.  He struggles in her grasp, only to be felled with another punch to the jaw.  "Listen!"  he begs sibilantly.  "Dawn, please!"

"I'm done listening to you!" she says, drawing his collar tight across his neck.

"Dawn, I mean it!"  he gasps, trying desperately to pry her hands away.  "I came back for a reason."

"And I'd like to hear it.  Right after I do this."  

A strategically aimed knee to a particularly sensitive area sends Travis back to the floor where he lies curled in a fetal position, ruing the day that he ever sprouted nuts.

Through his whimpers of pain, there is another sincere apology and then the words, "We're all going to hell, we're all going to hell.  If Daniel doesn't die, we're all going to hell.  The church is burning.  Satan is coming."  He takes a breath and then says.  "Daniel is our savior."

"Your pitiful church's savior?  I don't think so!"  Spike answers, placing protective arms around Buffy and his son.

"Not just ours,"  the boy says hoarsely as he winces from another ripple of pain.  Everybody's.  The whole world's."  

The living room is silent now.

Travis sits on an ottoman, an icepack on his jaw and between his legs.  Giles paces the floor, seized in thought, going over the details of Travis' confession in his mind.  Buffy rocks Daniel in her arms, worry knitting her brow, aging her far beyond her twenty-one years.  Spike stands behind her, his demon muted for the time being, but it's taking all his strength not to make Travis' throat a memory.  He studies Dawn, just steps away from where he stands, finding her reeling in a demon of her own.  Her eyes are cold, her expression steely and fixed as a general's in the trenches, wearing the gore of battle.  A few teardrop sized spatters of Travis' blood scar her face, but she is either unaware of the blood or is wearing it proudly.  He is not sure.  If there is anything that he is certain of, he knows that she would have killed Travis if the news of the impending Armageddon hadn't spilled out in his cries of post-traumatic ball injury.  

Travis has told them about the church, the minion from hell who helped construct it, the promise that Satan would return, the opening that appeared in the basement, inconspicuous at first, now roaring at full-throttle in the sanctuary, slowly consuming the earth with the fire down below.  

Giles pauses momentarily, scraping his tongue along the inside of his cheek.  "Your congregation conjured up Satan."

"Yes," Travis answers slowly.  "But it wasn't our fault.  Or _their_ fault.  They just wanted to build a church.  That's all."

"And you think that Buffy and Spike's child will stop this?"  Giles, again, uses his words carefully.  He's not about to speak aloud anything that might allude to the child's death.  

Travis is still not ready to divulge the secret.  The altar boy in him is still keeping the flame.  When the Watcher fists his unruly hair and jerks his head upward, he is more willing to speak.  "We're all going to hell."

"Oh, stop with the Billy Graham-isms already!"  Spike says.   "Tell us something useful!"

"That's it,"  Travis says softly.  "We're all going to hell.  Tonight.  Oh, God…"  The boy buries his face in his hands.  "We are.  We're all going to hell."

"You've told us this," Giles says, relinquishing his hold on the boy's hair.  "Now.  Once again.  How is Daniel supposed to stop this?"

The boy repositions the icepack on his jaw, flinching from the sight of Dawn's still curled fist.

"'The Slayer and a demon shall combine and raise for you a savior.'"  Travis mumbles.

"Come again?"  Giles asks.

Travis stiffens, knowing that speaking this bit of liturgy outside the church and to non-church members is the unwritten eighth deadly sin.  He sighs and repeats,  "'The Slayer and a demon shall combine and raise for you a savior.'"

"But how did you…?"  Buffy aims an accusatory glance Dawn's way which is answered with a shrug of the shoulders.

"You didn't have to tell me,"  Travis continues.  "Mom was kinda suspicious.  She sent me out, one night, to the Bronze, just to test her theory."

Buffy remembers this.  The sleazy vamp looking for a feed, the intended victim eating spicy hot buffalo wings dipped in dressing.  Revulsion overcomes her as she says, "Your mother sent you out to be---

"She knew the risks.  So did I,"  Travis says with a slight shiver.  "I was in it for the church's sake.  When you're told you're going to hell, you're going to hell, over and over, you'll do almost anything not to."  He demurs, not able to look at Dawn without wanting to cry.   "But I fell in love with you, Dawn, before I knew that Buffy was your sister."

"Like I'm going to believe you now," Dawn says through clenched teeth.

"Believe what you want.  I love you.  And when I found out Buffy was what Buffy was, I wished I had never seen you because I do love you more than anything in the world."

"Don't say that!"  Dawn says, moisture rippling over her hate-filled eyes.

"You don't know what it is to love someone more than anything in the world," Spike says, cradling Buffy and his son.

"But I do," Travis says.  Dawn's hatred of him is scoring his heart, leaving open, bleeding wounds.  "When I held Daniel, I couldn't let them…do what they were planning to do."  He looks at Daniel, nestled in Buffy's loving embrace.  "A mother's love.  It's the most powerful instinct in the universe.  Probably more powerful than a Slayer's strength."

"It is," Buffy says softly, curling her index finger under Daniel's feather light grasp.  She never knew what it was to love until she had Daniel.  She never knew what it was like to suffer until she thought she lost him.  And her heart has never grieved more at the thought that her child, the minute replication of her flesh, bone and blood, is being counted on to die for the world.  "Travis, why did you come back?" she asks.

Travis' expression is blank at first, but then his features soften when he looks at the baby's contented face as he stares adoringly, trustingly, at his mother.  "I've been asking this for a long time.  I've asked Mom, my Sunday school teachers, Reverend Estey.  Is there some other way to stop this?  And I'm always told, 'The Slayer and a demon shall combine and raise for you a savior.'  But tonight, when I was holding Daniel, I knew he was just a normal baby, a tiny little person who is loved by his parents.  I couldn't go through with it.  There has to be something else.  Something else to keep us from going to Hell.  I thought that Giles, as Buffy's Watcher, might know."

It is so bizarre to hear an outsider refer to him as Buffy's Watcher that a breath catches in Giles' throat.

Travis offers a crooked smile.  "In Sunday school, we're told about Watchers.  They're sort of like prophets to us." 

"But how did you know that I was---

"You're older, not her father, not her sugar daddy.  Give me some credit,"  Travis says.       

Giles nods.  "So this phrase you keep saying over and over.  'The Slayer and a demon will combine and raise for you a savior.'  Where did this come from?"

"From St. Catherine herself.  She appeared to the members of the original congregation and that was her message.  Some of the church members did some research.  They found some old text that told about how the Slayer and a vampire would become lovers and the two of them would produce a being to save the world."

"Do you know what text it was?" Giles asks.

Travis shrugs.  "I don't know.  Something about Aurelius or something."

"Aurelius?"  Giles says.  "You don't mean the prophecy of Aurelius, do you?"

"That could be it.  I don't know."

Giles' stare comes to rest on Spike.   The latest bit of information is settling uncomfortably on his shoulders, his already blanched skin whitening further as he takes it all in.  For the first time that Giles can remember, he and Spike are sharing the same train of thought and at the bend in the track, there is a wreck.

"Good God," Spike mutters.

"What?"  Buffy says, swiveling around to meet Spike's shock-riddled face.

"The prophecy of Aurelius," Giles says, shoving a hand under his jaw.  "I thought that it had been fulfilled with Angel's death."

"I sort of hoped it had," Spike says dejectedly.

Buffy whips her head from Giles to Spike and back to Giles, not knowing whom to look at as neither has a particularly hopeful expression.  The conspiratorial nature of their unspoken communication is taking her breath, so much so that she sputters when she asks,  "W-what are you talking about?  W-what prophecy?"

"Centuries ago it was predicted that a member of the Master's line would die to save the world," Giles says matter of factly.  "The Slayer would take a demon as her lover and from that union would arise a savior to rescue humanity from Hell.  It's only natural that the church would assume that the savior would take the form of a infant, since the whole of Christianity is based on the birth of a child and God's sacrifice of His only son." 

"So what has to happen?"  Buffy asks, her heart pounding as though she already knows.  And she does.  

"It's very simple, love." Spike says, swallowing hard as he draws her closer to him.  "In order to keep the world from ending, I have to die tonight."


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

            Buffy is shaking her head, slowly as the walls around her seem to be not only closing in, but crashing down on her as well.  She speaks in a low growl deep from within, "No."

            Spike begins to approach her.  "Darling---

            "Don't even start with the comforting thing because it's not true.  It can't be!"  Buffy retorts, eyes flashing.

"Buffy, it is true," Giles says plainly.  

            "Then why didn't you ever say anything about it to me?"  Buffy puts to her suddenly silent Watcher.  "I was with Angel for three years and you never said a word about any prophecy of Aurelius."

His spectacles are not enough to shield Giles from Buffy's hurtful glare.  The guilt fists itself inside of him, pounding his heart.  "I know I should have told you long ago," Giles says.  "I meant to tell you when things were becoming serious between you and Angel.  Then Angel promised me he would tell you right before he lost his soul."

"What, before I stabbed him in the heart with a sword and sent him to hell, you expected him to say something like, 'Oh, this is sooo Prophecy of Aurelius.'"

"I should have told you myself.  Even after you…even after Angel died.  I should have informed you that his death had been foretold.  When you and Spike became a couple, it didn't even occur to me that the prophecy might still be unfulfilled.    But I forgot one component of the prophecy.  The vampire who would sacrifice himself to save the world would do so willingly, for the sake of humanity."

 "No," she pushes from her lips.  "I can't…I won't believe it.  Giles, you've brought your books with you.  You need to…you need to research this.  There's something that we're missing here, some fact that we've overlooked because this just can't be right."  Giles stance remains fixed as he lets his eyes fall defeatedly to the floor.  "Giles!  Your books!   Open one, at least one.  One might tell you about what's going on and how we can stop it."  Buffy bends to the coffee table and flips open the closest tome.  "Here, you can start with this one.  We can all take one.  We can all read together, just like we always do.  If we all read one of these, or just skim it for the details, we might find something.  That's how we do things.  There's a problem, we research it, we deal with it."  Suddenly it feels as though she is the only one who can hear herself speaking.   "Come on.  What's everyone just standing around for?  It's the end of the world again.  It's not like we haven't seen _that_ before.  Please just take one book.  Just one.  One that might say something different.  One that might tell me that…"  Tears are beginning to burn at the back of her throat as she speaks.  Daniel pushes his foot into her rib cage and she is reminded that she is carrying her child.  His little face becomes a blur of pink and white as moisture glazes her eyes.  "One that tells me I don't have to give up the father of my child."

Familiar arms encircle her and cold lips slide against her cheek.  She turns in her lover's embrace, the child still silent and comforted by the re-acquaintance with his mother's surely hold on him.   She finds a skiff of moisture over her lover's intense blue stare, but something else as well.  There is purpose there, a steadfast knowledge that what has been put before him has to be done.  His hands catch in her hair and he strokes her long locks, all the way to the ends.  She can feel the coolness of his touch on her scalp as he begins each caress.  She feels the warmth of his words as he begins to speak to her.

"I knew about the prophecy when I fell in love with you," Spike says softly.  "That's one of the reasons why I was so terrified when I started to have feelings for you.  One of the many reasons."

 "Then why didn't _you_ tell me?" she asks reproachfully.

"As Giles said, I thought that when Angel died, the prophecy was over and done with, love.  But apparently there was a little more to it."

Being in his arms, she is more acutely aware of his strength and how much she had come to rely on it.  She feels a sob building in her, so intense in its construction she weakens and falls towards her lover.  "Oh God, Spike.  Oh God.  I can't live without you.  I just couldn't!"

Spike motions for Dawn to take Daniel.  Dawn cannot meet his eyes as she shifts the baby into her arms.  Silently and without being asked, the group disperses, herding themselves into the next room.

Once the last retreating footfall is heard, Spike speaks again.

"Buffy, you've always wanted me to do the right thing.  And this is right.  You know it.  So do I."  He smiles, letting a droplet of his emotion spill down and sequester itself in the deep trench of his left cheekbone.  "I promised you a long time ago that I would do anything to protect you and Dawn and Daniel.  So if I have to die to keep the world from ending, then I have to."  

For a moment she wishes that there were just a few traces of the old Spike still lingering, the Spike who would say, "Hell on earth might be interesting.  And I'm certain that I've racked up enough points with Old Scratch to secure a cabinet position at least."  But the world is different now for him.  It's not just an endless forest where many creatures roam waiting to be poached, drained and killed.  His world is the woman he holds in his arms and everything that touches her.  She is his home and hearth, his reason for waking, for being, for getting through the day.  She is a divine gift that was bestowed on him during one of God's moments of extreme benevolence.  She is beyond precious to him; she is everything precious that was ever created.  Whatever evil in him was worn away years ago, she is certain.   Whatever good in her has been made better, just by knowing him.  

 What she remembers now is Spike's own promise to her, many months ago, when their affections for each other were new and whatever they were in the grand scheme of things wasn't nearly as relevant as the words, "I love you."

"You told me you'd never leave me," she says.

God, Spike thinks.  In the dearth of a stake driven into his heart, she extrapolates a bit of his own sentiment and slays him just as well.  He could never leave her.  Even now, with her skin flowing under his touch like bolts of golden silk, it seems impossible that he could even leave the room, let alone leave behind this life they have created together.  She invited him into her arms and he has spent so many heavenly months right there in the cloud soft embrace of her acceptance.  Just going through the day has become an exercise in passion.  The normalcy of their lives is made extraordinary by their polar opposite preternaturalness.  It wasn't long ago that he called a crypt home and slept on a stone sarcophagus.  With this woman he shares a bed in a small room, in a shoebox of an apartment that has a refrigerator, a TV, a shower with hot and cold running water, a microwave, and a tiny cradle.  

He lifts her chin with the crook of his index finger, his dormant heart making a mockery of his dead flesh as he feels it splitting in two.  "Darling, we have had exactly 468 days together and that's about 468 more days than I ever imagined we would have together.  You've given me so much, Buffy.  You've given me another chance at life.  You've made me a man, the sort of man I could have never been if I had never known you.  And you've made me a father.  Yeah, you're right.  I did tell you that I would never leave you.  And I never will.  Because of Daniel.  As long as you have Daniel, I'll be with you, love.  I think that's why he was born, love.  Which makes him our miracle and not anyone else's.  Here."  He closes his hand over the watch around her neck.  Springing it open, he reads his own words.  _I've got all the time for you, love.  _"You give this to Daniel one day, when he's ready.  When he's curious about his old man.  You sit down with him and tell him about me.  You don't have to tell him everything, not all at once.  But I do want him to know that his father loved him right up until the second he died."

"I'll tell him," she promises, pulling him closer to her

He takes her face in his hands and pulls her gently toward him.  Kissing her fleetingly, he then places his forehead against hers.  "I don't know what's going to happen to me," he says, "but I want you to know what wherever I am, in whatever dimension I find myself in, I'll never stop loving you."

Fresh tears puddle and then flow down her cheeks.  No amount of telling herself not to cry will work and she is so glad he is not telling her to be brave.  "I'll never, ever stop loving you," she whispers to him.  She draws him closer, pressing her hands against his muscular form, needing to feel how solid he is, needing to know his substance.  She clutches at the lapels of his duster, thinking that if she holds on hard enough, he won't disappear.

He feels in her arms a sudden dip in courage, as though she is claiming him forever in her embrace.

"Buffy, I have to go," he tells her.

"I know," she whispers into his ear.  "I'm going with you."

He jerks her away from him, holding her at an arm's length.  "Buffy---

"I'm going with you to the church," she says, tears sliding down her cheeks.  "You should have someone you love beside you holding your hand before you…I'm going to be there to hold you hand."

He kisses her again, this time letting his lips linger on hers, hoping that wherever he is going, he can take with him at least the memory of her mouth.

 "Darling, the first time I saw you, you were dancing.  The next time I saw you, you were fighting.  And I never want you to stop doing either, do you hear me?"

"Yes," she says, but just barely.  

"Swear it."

"I swear."

Satisfied with her pledge, he wipes a few of her tears away with the dull blade swipe of his thumb and takes her by the hand.  He puts her curled fist to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.  "Till death do us part, love."

She nods, tightening her grip on his hand.  "Till death do us part."

In the next room, Dawn is rocking Daniel very gently.  He has drifted off to sleep and she could put him back into his carrier, but she doesn't want to.  She wants to hold him and remember how close she came to never holding him again.  She pauses to consider the little person in her arms.  The protrusion of flesh on his upper lip catches her eye.  A month of nursing has produced a callous.  He is such a hungry baby.  She is surprised that he wasn't yowling for Buffy's milk when he was first brought back.  But he has been silent and accepting of all that has been raging out of control around him.  If only she could be like him, Dawn thinks for a moment, reliant only on the impulses to feed and sleep.  If only the chloroform could have knocked her out completely for the entire evening.  To drag herself through this unending night has been an exercise in courage she didn't know she had and even she is mystified by the power she exhibited when she pummeled her boyfriend over and over.  Those events seem distant now that the sweet and warm baby is nestled in her arms.  He is safe from harm, but there is someone else who is not so lucky.  Someone she loves will be going away from her.  It won't be the first time.  But it feels like the first time all over again.

  Travis still remains in their midst, though if the glares he his receiving could be translated into weapons, he would be a charcoal smear on the Singleton's unblemished beige carpet.  He has never stopped looking at Dawn, still hopeful that she might offer him something other than a punch to his jaw.

"Dawn, I'm---

"Shut up!"  she orders as she continues to escort Daniel around the room in her arms.  "Just shut up!"

Undaunted by her surly response, he tries again.  "Dawn, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Yeah?  Well I did!  And I could hurt you again if you don't keep your mouth shut."    

With his swollen eye still stinging from her last jab, Travis decides that doing as he is told is a much better alternative than having the rest of his shit kicked out of him.

At this time, Spike and Buffy stride hand-in-in into the living room.  Dawn looks over at the pair and automatically looks away after seeing the resolve in their faces and the traces of tears they have shed while reaching their final, unalterable conclusion.  

"We're off," Spike says casually as though the two of them are departing home for the night.

"Oh," Giles says as he rises from his position on the sofa.  "Do you need anything?"  And a second after he says that, he is mentally proclaiming himself as the ass of all time.

"Got everything I need right here," Spike replies, holding tight to his lover's hand.  All that's left are the good-byes, Spike adds to himself.  He often wondered what it would be like to he finally said sayonara to Sunnydale.   He thought that the jubilation would rival that of the worldwide welcoming of the new millennium.  But judging by the sorrowful expressions on the faces of those gathered before him, the mark he has left on this place isn't one of the sort of treachery the Spike before him would have liked to be remembered for.  Instead, the people here are pre-mourning the passing of a man they have come to know very lately as a brother and a friend.   They line up sullenly like aged professors at a commencement ceremony.

Giles is the first recipient of Spike's farewell.  Giles is stiff and composed as he shoves his hand forward begrudgingly and Spike takes it, giving it a firm pump.  When the youthful vampire inclines his head towards his, Giles instinctively shrinks away and Spike has to laugh a little.  

"Watcher," Spike says in a sharp whisper.

Giles thinks Spike is calling him by his title, but in a brief mental recap of the moment, Buffy's caretaker dissects the two syllables into Spike's true meaning.  Watch her, is what the vampire has said to him.  Giles nods and smiles, not even aware that his hand is still in Spike's until the vampire's fingers slip away from his.  His eyes brim with emotion Spike never thought he would find behind those ever-present specs of a man who has been such a vocal adversary of his throughout the years.

Next is Willow, whose chin nearly rests on her chest as she lifts her eyes to him.  A handshake will not do for this lovely red-headed coven maven and Spike wraps his arms around her.  Her arms envelope his shoulders and he remembers a time when she gave him strained comfort with the words, "there, there."

"Fuzzy pink with lilac underneath,"  he intones in her ear.

"Huh?" she says.

As he pulls away he is smiling.  "That sweater you once wore.  Find it.  Wear it."  He takes her by the chin.  "Life is much to short and you are too pretty to dress like a depressed member of the proletariat."   

She didn't really expect fashion advice to be his parting words to her, but she didn't count on being hugged either.  She will miss him and she feels she should tell him this, but the lump in her throat prevents her from saying anything.  Her eyes shimmer with tears as she nods her farewell.

Tara stands beside her, and she receives not only an embrace, but a kiss on the cheek as well.  Willow reasons that this is only right, since she is quite visibly the femme in their relationship.  The witch has also always acknowledged the gentle bond between the two as outsiders of the group and has heard her lover speak of Spike with a familial tone in her voice.  It was Tara who felt Spike's protective shield over Buffy long before he made his presence known when he returned to Sunnydale after his desert sojourn.  She knew that something powerful would come out of his love for her and it has; something strong enough to save the world.

Xander rocks on his heels nervously as Spike comes to rest in front of him.   No matter what hateful, heated exchanges the two men have shared over the years, the two have been friends, though neither have them has affixed that label to their relationship.  To do so would imply that the ice had broken somewhere along the line and they both like to think of themselves as gliding along as mutual enemies who occasionally have a thing or two in common.

Their hands come up at the same time, forging not so much a handshake as a hug they can't go through with.

"Xander, Daniel's going to need a strong male influence in his life.  Someone to look up to, someone to emulate," Spike says.

"And you want me to make sure Buffy finds such a person,"  Xander finishes for him.

Spike puts his fingertip to his nose.  "Only at the last do we understand each other."

The two men stand a part for a short time, just one minute hand sweep on the clock until their arms to find their way around each other.

"I'll look after him," Xander says with a firm squeeze, realizing the slightness of Spike's shoulders and the magnitude of what has been placed on them.

"You'd better," Spike with a gentle warning in his voice.

Anya stands beside him, straddling the line between being exceedingly bored and exceptionally affected.  

"I don't know why this is so hard," she says, folding her arms around her torso.  "You have admittedly stolen from me and you always refer to me as 'Demon Girl.'  But here, I'm going to use the vernacular of a family that has a popular and therefore profitable show on MTV."  Anya smiles.  "You're fucking forgiven."

"And I'm fucking thankful," this Prince of Darkness replies as he hugs her.

Now it is Dawn's turn.

She has been counting the people in front of her, knowing that her time would come eventually and hoping that it wouldn't.  It's too late to sneak off and hide and play pretend that this is not happening.  When her father left she spent many days behind her closed bedroom door pretending that he was still in the house.   She told herself they were playing and extended game of hide and seek and she just couldn't find him.  She counted all the numbers she knew, crying out "ready or not, here I come!" when she got to the place where she was making up sixty two-eth's or seven-fiveths.  She knows all her numbers now.  She can even divide them, make them into integers, combine them with letters and plug them into theorems.  What she can't do still, after all these years, is say good-bye.

The teenager, so mature in her carriage and so tall in stature, shrinks away to the girl she was a year a half ago when she hears Spike call her "Sweetbit" and after that she can't stop the tears.

"Oh, baby girl…please don't cry," he tells her uselessly as he sifts her hair through his fingers.  

"Oh, Spike…" is all she says.  Her body is shaking and she knows she is losing her hold on the baby that has been entrusted to her.  Luckily, Buffy shifts Daniel into her arms just before the bough breaks Dawn falls into Spike's arms.  

Whatever tethered hold Spike was using to leash his own tears is tested when he feels the young girl tremble helplessly against him.  

"You were the first human in 128 years to tell me that you loved me, remember that?" he asks her as he tugs her closer.

She does remember this.  She told him she loved him in Giles' living room when her sister was lying close to death in the hospital.  It was his love for Buffy that had brought about the fever that nearly killed her, and his love for her that struck her down with the ailment as well.  But it was this affliction that told her his affections towards the both of them were true.  She has loved this man for a long time, longer than her sister has, she knows.  She once told him in anger that he wasn't her father or her brother, that he was just the guy who fucked her sister.  She is cursing herself for every argument they've ever had, but especially for hurting him so when she knew in her heart he was more a father to her than her own father and more a brother than any imaginary brother could be.  He has been to her, plain and simply, the best of everything to her.

"I'm so proud of you, Dawn.  So proud of what you've become," he tells her.  "One of my greatest pleasures has been watching you grow and become so beautiful and strong.  I don't have to worry about you, Bit.  You've proven tonight you can take care of yourself.  But there's one thing you have to do for me.  Your sister's going to need you and you have to be there for her.  You have to."

"I will," Dawn manages to say.  

He leans into her, his eyes becoming twin indigo beams drilling into hers.  She feels his lips fall on hers with just the most polite pressure.  With this kiss she feels very small indeed, small enough to disappear, small enough to die and not be remembered.  His eyes resurrect the memory of herself as he backs away and she knows she has to be, just _be_.  She has to be there for Buffy.

The baby is squalling, a feeding needed at last.  Buffy opens her blouse and sits in a faraway corner.  Spike sits by her, watching his girlfriend feed their baby.  After Daniel is filled with the sustenance of his mother's milk and drifts towards sleep, Spike takes him into his arms.

"Hey, little warrior," Spike says.  "Don't nod off just yet.  Your Daddy needs to speak to you.  You know that lovely girl there.  That's your mummy.  I'm leaving you with her."  Daniel coos in a mock understanding of what's being said.  It's as though sometime Daniel is being born all over again when he notices something different about him.  "I love you, Daniel.  Daddy will always love you."

Spike kisses his son before passing the infant back into Dawn's arms.  His son will never know his love for him, but in the witness of the people around him, Spike hopes someday Daniel will know his father loved him, just by the very fact that he is alive.

At the doorway, clutching his love's hand, Spike surveys the group in front of him, all sad-soaked and blistered from his departure.  He gives a final wave.  And then he opens the door.


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

At Saint Catherine's Chapel, the bell in the clock tower peals the quarter hour 'til midnight.  There is a sound arising from the hole in the sanctuary like that of metal scraping against metal; the voices of the demons below growing increasing restless to be unleashed and set free to roam about the earth. Flames from the open pit shoot skyward, igniting the rafters above.  In minutes the entire church will be soot.  

            At the altar, Reverend Estey is loath to let his congregation lose faith.  As their pastor, he has led them to this, the ultimate test of their belief, and now, with the ceiling falling around them in snowflakes of red embers, he comforts them with a final word.

            "It is God's will," he tells them with a bowed head.

            "No!"  Samantha Singleton cries, unlinking her hands from the circle.  "Travis will be here!"

            "Samantha, it's almost midnight," Steven Singleton tells his wife.  He stares down into the pit and says in a near whisper.  "The demons have won."

            "But Steven!   Travis knows what will happen if the sacrifice doesn't take place.  He knows the world will end!  The Slayer and the vampire would have had to have killed…"   Samantha Singleton cannot finish her sentence.  There is something so horrible that she has never even considered, even though she has been the mastermind behind sending her only son into the house of a demon and his warrior human companion.  Somehow it has never occurred to her that something might have gone wrong this evening to prevent her son from carrying out his mission.  Slowly, she lifts her eyes to her husband.  "Steven, you don't think…"

            "Samantha, you've said it yourself over and over.  Travis knew how important it was to bring the child here tonight," Steven Singleton says with an unblinking stare.

            "Oh, my God," Samantha mutters, her thundering heartbeat now competing with the din of the encroaching hell.  "No," she now says, resolutely, "My son isn't…they wouldn't have killed my son."

            "Darling," Mr. Singleton says, taking his wife's hand in his.  "If you had had the chance to throttle whatever it was that took baby Michael from us, I know you would have.  I know _I _would have."

            Samantha Singleton shakes her head violently, jerking her hand away.  "No!  Don't say that!  My son is alive!  H-he's coming with the baby tonight.  He won't let us down.  I know he's coming.  Our son will be here!"

            Just now comes a crash as the Rose Window shatters above their heads.  All eyes are on the fine spray of jeweled glass.  Falling in the midst of the multi-colored rain shower is a platinum haired man and a blonde-headed woman, both landing on their feet at the altar. 

            Reverend Estey quickly sizes up the pair in front of him as his eyes instantly register recognition.  Slayer and vampire…

            "The sacrifice?" Reverend Estey sputters.

            Spike shakes his head.  "No son of mine is going to die for anything."

He looks at the opening, the flames rising, chewing away at the rafters above them, dissolving everything around them.  Although he has given some thought as to how the gateway to hell would appear, for some reason he hasn't imagined it being so hellish.  

Or so familiar.

His mind begins to work at a furious pace.   His head is full of echoes now, words spoken, words read, words meant.  _The Slayer and a demon shall combine and raise for you a savior…the Slayer and a demon shall combine and raise for you a savior…you're the love of my life…and you are mine…till death do us part…till death do us part…the Slayer and a demon shall combine and raise for you a savior._

The floor beneath him is rumbling and he stumbles, recovering his footing while braced by the arms of his lover.  The flames are growing near and he can feel the intensity of the heat infiltrating his clothing.  The noise from below is rising in pitch, blistering his ears.  He is surrounded by familiarity, like he has been placed into a photo negative taken from his own life.  He looks at Buffy and sees the silent entreaty on her lips and in her eyes.  _Please don't go…please don't leave me…_ He is stirred now by an inner voice that refuses to be muted by the deafening howl from the pit.       

_The dream._

"Buffy, this is my dream!" he says.  "_Our _dream!"

            "What?"  Buffy asks.

            "The dream I kept having!  It was here.  You were standing right there, begging me not to go, but knowing I had to," he says.  "And I knew what I had to do to keep from leaving you."  He knew that night, not too long ago, when she lifted the veil of golden hair from her neck and invited him to feed.  Again, the need to drink long and unabated overcomes him and he remembers the thought that came into his head that night as he fought with everything he had to keep from truly making her his for all eternity; he had to marry her.  "We have to get married, Buffy," he says.   "Right here.  Right now."

Buffy looks from her lover to the pit of fire in the floor.  She sees the flames, she sees the destruction the fire is bringing.  She feels the tremor in the earth beneath her feet and for the first time this evening something makes sense.

"'A Slayer and a demon will combine and raise for you a savior,'" she says to herself and it is as though she is hearing it for the first time.  She guides her vision back to Spike, gripping his shoulders as the floor begins to slope towards the open pit.   "Yes," she says as though under hypnosis.  "Yes, let's get married."

            Spike smiles and kisses her, holding her tight as he turns to the Reverend.  "You heard the lady," he says.  "Marry us.  And we'll need you to hit fast forward on this ceremony too like you did with the last one we saw.  The world _is_ about to end, you know."

            The ground is shaking so that the entire structure around them is being thrown about.  The chandeliers above sway and knock together like pendulums of time running out.  The clock in the tower rings wildly.  The congregation clings to the walls, the frames around the windows, the aged radiators jutting from the walls.  Their wailing now forms a screeching descant with the moans of the tormented souls in Hell.

"Hurry!"  Buffy screams, clutching at Spike to keep from slipping away.

 With Hell belching a great deal of fire, Reverend Estey's feet are forced to the flames.  He nods towards the Slayer and her vampire fiancé.  

            "Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the Holy Estate of Matrimony?  Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

            "I will," Spike answers as his feet plow against the slanting earth.

"Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the Holy Estate of Matrimony?  Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor and keep him in sickness and in health, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

            "I will," Buffy answers, struggling to right herself as gravity continues to work against her.

            "Do you take this woman to be your wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"

            "I do," Spike has to shout.

"And do you take this man to be your wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"

"I do," Buffy says, nearly falling to her knees.

            The Reverend is holding onto the cross at the altar as though commandeering the mast of a rapidly sinking ship. He says in a hurried stream of speech, "Forasmuch as this man and this woman have consented together in holy wedlock and have declared the same before God and in the presence of this company, I pronounce them Husband and Wife.  In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.  Amen.  What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

            From the ground now comes a hideous bellow, made up of all the cries of a million wretched souls.  It is a wail of protest, an angry response to the Reverend's disdainful liturgy.  Those standing above ground cup their hands over their ears as the noise continues, growing to such a level that the windows begin to shatter.  All at once, the sound begins to dissipate and the earth's movements become the focal point.  The ground is not so much shaking as it is moving…together. 

            The hole that seemed so immense, widening with hell's turbulence, is now speedily diminishing.   Now the size of a dinner plate, now the size of a silver dollar, currently no bigger than the eye of a needle.  All around, the fires which were so ferociously laying claim to everything in their path are being extinguished as though  doused by invisible waters.  The chandeliers still swing, but gently now as though stirred by a stiff breeze.  The bell in the clock tower chimes the midnight hour.  

            Buffy bends to feel the earth and finds it as cool to the touch as her lover's hand.  

The sudden closure has put an end to the voices below.  She can only hear her voice as she says, "It's over."  

Spike, still dazed by all that has happened, his pallor given a fresh coat of white by his near death, finally manages to say, "Buffy, if this doesn't tell you that the two of us were meant to be together, you're completely hopeless."

            Buffy gets to her feet and rushes into his arms.  Once enclosed in his embrace, she is filled with such a sense of love she is nearly crippled by it.  She finds the strength to stand in the sturdy, undying, undeniable affection of her partner, her one and only, her eternal love.

            Her husband.

            They hold each other, standing firm together in the ruins of the once noble structure of Saint Catherine's Chapel.  Through an opening where the ceiling gave way to the thundering rumbles of hellfire, the moon requests sanctuary and, once admitted, tithes its pale beams on the pair, giving them a dream-like appearance.  All around them, the fires are burning themselves out, leaving in their wake halos of smoke, circling the newlyweds in a nebulous glow.  To those looking on, it is as though they are seeing love in a tangible form, so real that if they extend their fingers they can touch it, crease the silk of it, feel its warmth and its light.

            Buffy feels the vigor of their victory and pulls Spike closer to her.  His hand comes up around the small of her back and presses gently against her flesh.  The hand that once battered her, conspired to curl about her throat, endeavored to rip her to shreds, comforts her now, holds her, keeps her strong.  On this night she took this hand in the sight of God, on a cleft overlooking the realm of Satan, and promised to be his forever.

            "Oh God, Spike, we're married," she says in a near sob.

            "Yeah, we are," he says, finding it hard to believe as well.  "It was a bit rushed, but I think at one point the Rev declared us husband and wife."

            "He did.  And I'm so glad he did," Buffy says, crushing her mouth against his.

            Spike returns the kiss while penning a thank you note to Angel in his mind.  _Thanks for fulfilling the Prophecy of Aurelius.  I married your ex.  We're registered at Neiman Marcus.  Cash is also welcome.  Your pal, Spike._   "So was it everything you ever dreamed of, love?"  

            Buffy scrunches up her face.  "I'd be lying if I said it was.  But you're definitely the man I always dreamed of marrying."

            "We could have a redux if you like.  I reckon since I've asked you to marry me twice, it would follow that we should get married twice."

            Buffy smiles as she traces his left cheekbone.  Her _husband's_ left cheekbone.  With a giddy inflection in her voice, she says, "Well, we wouldn't want to disappoint Dawn.  I mean, she's made all these plans and has practically booked the New Kids on the Block tribute band for the reception."

            "Then I say we have another.  Do it up right.  With pretty bridesmaids all in a row and you in a long, flowing white gown coming down the aisle to the tune of _Trumpet Voluntary_." 

            Buffy laughs.  "And then you'll be spending the wedding night alone after I'm laughed off the planet for wearing a white gown."

            "Oh no," Spike says, smoothing a thumb over her lips.  "I'm never spending another night without you." 

            Oh God, I love him she squeals to herself as she brings his face to hers for another kiss.

            "Did you kill my son?" someone says behind them.  

            Spike and Buffy turn to find Samantha Singleton standing there, looking decidedly frail, her face pinched and careworn as though witnessing the fires of Hell have layered the age on her.

            "Travis?  Did you kill him?" she asks again.

            For a moment Buffy sees in this woman something very familiar.  It disgusts her briefly to connect with this woman in any manner, but when the momentary sickly sensation passes, she is able to see what is drawing her to this woman:  the look of loss.  Her expression is so haunted Buffy sees ghosts in the woman's eyes.

            "We didn't kill Travis," Buffy says.  "Travis brought Daniel back to us."

            Samantha Singleton's eyes fill with tears.  "He did?"

            Buffy nods.  "Your son is very brave, Mrs. Singleton and I think now that he's a good person.  But let me tell you this.  If you ever find yourself facing an Apocalypse, ask the experts before going it alone.    An innocent life was almost lost tonight.  Many innocent lives were almost lost tonight."

            "I know," Samantha Singleton says softly.  "I'm so sorry---

            "Mrs. Singleton, it's over, OK?  Satan's in his Hell and all is right with the world.  Now I'm going to go home with my husband and we're going to spend some time with our son before he goes to sleep.  You should probably do the same."

            Mr. Singleton sidles up next to his wife, putting a comforting arm around her.  "I think we will," he says.  "We have a lot to celebrate tonight."  

Buffy and Spike begin to move away from the altar, still arm-in-arm.  Halfway to the door, it occurs to Buffy what the Singletons might find in their home when they return.  She imagines that the Scoobies might still be there, waiting for her or hanging onto each other while waiting for the end.  

She turns to the Singletons and says, "When you get back to your house, there could be some people there that you've never seen before in your life."

Samantha and Steven Singleton stare back at her quizzically.  

"They're our friends and you can tell them for us that…"  What _can_ they tell them?  Buffy thinks carefully about what she would say, measuring each phrase for impact and style.  She only has to look at her new husband and brush his cheek with her hand before she knows what is ultimately the right choice of words.  "Tell them that Buffy and Spike are forever."

Phyllis Wright unspools another stream of tape from the dispenser and puts the finishing touches on another sealed box.  She scans the tiny floorspace of the shop which she has tended to and has nearly gone broke for on several occasions.  With an economic downturn and her hopes dashed on the city on the Hellmouth, she is leaving town.  The stock, some of it very new and popular with the masses, is being shipped back to the manufacturers.  Her everything must go sale came and went and she unloaded a lot of merchandise during the weeklong purge of her inventory.  She bagged all of it with the same care and decorative tissue paper as ever, but she didn't say, "Come back and see us again" because she knew that wasn't true.  She simply said, "Thank you for your business.  It's been great."

            And it has been great for her.   In her guise as Helene, the owner of the House of Herbs, she likes to think she has helped many a bland meal become bountifully palatable and maybe she has spiced up a sagging love life here and there, but in the end, she is just a woman, well into her forties, saying goodbye all alone to a livelihood she has by turns despised and adored.

            She reaches into her apron for the black magic marker she has been using to label the boxes and scratches the words "Legal hemp product" onto the surface of the cardboard.  Thinking better of what she has written, she blacks out "legal hemp" and replaces it with "Miscellaneous."   When capping the marker, she turns to look for the other box that is ready for stuffing and finds a man standing there instead.

            Crying out, she drops the marker to the floor.  The blond man in front of her bends to retrieve it for her.  As he places it into her hand, he says, "Sorry.  Didn't mean to scare you."

            "Well, you did!"  she says, hoping somehow to slow her heartbeat with external pressure from her shaking hand.  "How did you get in here?"

            "Vampire, remember?"  Spike says.  "We have our ways."

            "Oh," she says, coming to her senses.  "Oh.  Spike."

            "Yes, Spike," he says, hopping up on the counter and extracting a cigarette from the pack in his pocket.  He lights the end with the flick of his Zippo and takes a drag.              Her skin prickles.  Suddenly she knows the purpose of his unannounced visit.  The vampire must have seen her that night at the church.  They have a history together, one that includes a chapter in which the creature solicited help for her in creating a child, a child whose sacrifice was supposed to have saved the world from Satan.

She smoothes her hands down either side of her jeans, merely blotting the flow of perspiration coming from her palms.  "Look," she begins.  "I know why you're here."

Spike cocks his head to one side and exhales a billow of thick smoke.

"I-I know you think that I had something to do with all that happened last week.  A-and I do, but not in the way that you think.  Just being a member of the church puts me in the guilty party.   But a year ago, you came to me a man afraid, afraid that you were going to lose someone precious to you.  A-and I said a prayer, I invoked the Goddess of the Earth to bless Buffy's womb.  That's all I did.  I didn't do any spells.  I don't even _know_ any spells that would create a life.  That's something way over my head.  So if you think for one minute that I said some incantation and made a pact with some dark forces so that you and Buffy could make a baby, you're wrong.  I wouldn't do that.  I _couldn't _do that.   Whatever brought your baby into the world was completely natural, or as natural as it could possibly be, since you're technically a dead man and don't have…well, you know.  We talked about that.  I-I've heard that it only takes one and you had at least one that still had a little life---

"Oh, will you please stop nattering on, will you?"  Spike roars.  "If there's one thing that exhausts my patience, it's a girl who won't shut up."  He sighs and regards the glowing red cherry at the end of his cigarette.  "I know I'm Daniel's father, you silly bint.  I've known that since the first time I heard his heartbeat.  I didn't come here for amateur DNA detective hour.  All's I was curious about was why you're shuttering Ye Olde Herbalessence Shoppe."

"Oh," she says, relief nearly turning her into a puddle on the floor.  And then thinking that Ye Olde Herbalessence Shoppe might not be a bad name for her next business venture.  "Oh.  That."  She gives a nervous laugh as she pretends to be mired in thought over which items to pack next.  "It just seems the right time to make a move.  I've been thinking about it for a while now."  She takes in a breath and heads over to the row of fresh thyme that just arrived the day before she decided to close.  "I've always hated this town," she admits wearily.  "I was born and raised here.  I went away to college for four years and still I came back here after I graduated.  I don't know why.  I guess I was just scared of being away from something that was familiar and comfortable."

            Spike nods, taking another puff of his cigarette.  "I know.  I've seen this place in my rearview mirror half a dozen times at least and I always manage to find myself back here for some reason."  He says this, although he knows why the City on the Hellmouth has fashioned him into such a hapless boomerang of a man:  Buffy, always Buffy.  If she had lived in Cleveland, he probably would have been drawn to that outpost of hell as well, but it had to be Sunnydale.  Always Sunnydale.

            "You'd think we would have learned our lesson by now," Phyllis Wright says.  "I think now I have, though.  I can't live in this place anymore.  Especially after what happened last week at the church.  I've known those people all my life.  And this town is too small to avoid them."  She brushes pinches the firm and green stems of the fresh thyme, hoping that the shipment will withstand the trip back to farm where they were grown, but dismally she thinks they won't make it.  "They're like me.  They're finding it hard to live with what they almost did.  I see the guilt in their faces whenever I see them.  It's too much for me to bear.   We almost killed a child."

            Spike feels his insides convulse as though feeling the panic of finding his baby's cradle empty all over again.  Then he quickly comforts himself with the recent memory of kissing the child's mouth and taking in the sweetness of his wife's milk on his lips.  The night a week ago that could have seen father and child banished from the earth instead espoused Spike to a woman who nourishes them both with all the love she can give.

            He remembers too Buffy's level-headedness when confronted with the Singletons that night.  How he wanted to strangle them for what they had done, for turning their own son into a monster and, in the process, making him, his wife, his son and the girl he loves like a daughter suffer such horrible anguish.  They needed to be punished.  But from what Dawn has told Spike, they are getting some comeuppance: Travis is looking into applying at a college in Virginia that has never even been ranked by _Newsweek _as one of the top colleges in the US.  

            "Yeah," Spike says with a deep sigh, "But as Buffy said, many people could have died that night.  But no one did."  _Not even me_, he finishes to himself.  

            "Thank God," Phyllis Wright says, sniffing the thyme before bandaging it up in bubble wrap for its journey home.  "So how is Buffy?"

            "She's great.  She's out shopping for a wedding gown right now with her sister."

            "A wedding gown?  But you two just got married.  Isn't it a little soon to renew your vows?"

            Spike blows out another curl of Smoke before dropping the spent cigarette to the floor and stomping it out with the toe of his boot.  "We decided we wanted a ceremony in which Satan didn't try to play gatecrasher.  We're getting married on Christmas Eve at the place where we met for the first time."

            "Oh, how romantic!  And where is that?"

            "The Bronze."

            "But isn't that a bar?"

            "It is."  When Phyllis Wright seems less than impressed with the venue they have chosen for their nuptials, Spike says, "Don't be such a sodding snob.  It _is_ where we met."  

            "Was it love at first sight?"  Phyllis Wright asks.

            "No.  I wanted to kill her.  But I got over it."

            "Oh," Phyllis Wright says.  "Good thing you did."

            "Yes, a very good thing."  Spike shoves off from the counter and begins to approach the shop girl.   "Would you like to see the rings?"

"Sure," she replies, not even beginning to back away.   They seem like old friends now.

            Spike fumbles with the tiny velveteen box before springing it open to reveal a tiny platinum ring encrusted with swirls of pave diamonds and an unadorned band, also in platinum.  "I think they're what she wanted.  I had only a description to go by.  And a print out from the DeBeers website that her sister gave me before I left the house."

            "Oh, any woman would love to have rings like these," Phyllis says admiringly.  "Myself included."  

            "Really?  I hope she'll be pleased.  She's going to be wearing them for a long time.  The rest of her life, you know."

            "I feel like I should give you something," Phyllis says.  "Something from my shop.  Is there anything that you want?"

            Spike thinks a minute.  His mind rewinds to a time, almost eighteen months ago, in Giles' living room, during an extended Scooby brainstorm in which they were not trying to save the world; they were trying to save Buffy.  There was one ingredient that was missing, one that Spike wracked his brain all night for.  And when he remembered it, Giles brought it to him from his garden.  It had been under their noses all the time.  

            "Columbine," Spike says.  "Have you any columbine?"

            Phyllis shakes her head.  "No I don't.  It's a wildflower and it doesn't grow at this time of year, I'm afraid."

            "No matter.  I'll find it.  A sprig of columbine in Buffy's bouquet for her something blue."  He smiles down at the dazzling delights he has purchased for his wife.  "Buffy told me she loved me when she was on her hospital bed after she got over her fever.  She wouldn't have survived if I hadn't found the ingredients in your shop.  The columbine was just the coloring for the elixir.  Everything we needed to bring Buffy back was in this shop, so you've already given me the world."  He closes the ring box in his hand with a muted snap.  "All I ever wanted."

            "You did break my plate glass window, though," Phyllis reminds the vampire with a daring she didn't know she had.  

            Spike shrugs.  "So we send you an invite to the festivities and call it even."

            "Even,"  Phyllis Wright says with a smile.  

            Spike pockets Buffy's tiny parcel and walks away, the tail of his leather duster billowing behind him.  "So long, shop girl."

            "Thank you for your business," she says.  "It's been great."      

Yes, there will be a chapter twenty-five.  Promise J    Hell, I didn't kill Spike and I promised you I wouldn't.  So chapter twenty-five will arrive.  Just stay alive.  


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The sign outside The Bronze tonight reads "Closed for a private party."  Inside there is a better-dressed crowd than the usual bunch that shows up for soft drinks and heavy innuendos.  Amid the twinkling white holiday lights and garlands of shiny tinsel, a solitary pair is sharing their first public dance as a married couple.  The man is dressed handsomely in an Armani tuxedo, the woman in an ivory, tea-length gown of a designer of no renown.  It is something she chose because it was lovely and right for the occasion.  The woman draws her hand along the recess of the man's prominent jaw, at length fingering his burgeoning bottom lip.  She kisses him as the DJ plays a song that is sweetly familiar to them both.  

Here were are now going to the Southside… 

"Hmm, perfect," is Buffy's only comment in the aftermath of the kiss.

"What, the kiss?"  Spike asks.

"No, everything," she says, fanning her hand against his as her contentment nearly lifts her from the floor.

He smiles as the rings on her finger catch the ray of a blue spotlight from above.  "My, you do look wonderful in platinum, darling."

 "And so do you.  But then again, you always have," she says, chiseling a finger through his straightened, gelled-back locks.  He doesn't often wear his hair this way anymore and sometimes it's as though she's taking a trip back in time and seeing the old Spike.  But the Spike of yesteryear wouldn't be holding her so close or looking at her with such deep affection.  Nor would he have married her---twice, no less.  

She leans in close to him, teasing him with the suggestion of a kiss before drawing away quickly.  "Guess what?  You're going to be sleeping with a married woman tonight."

"Got news for you, love.  I've been sleeping with a married woman for six weeks now."

Buffy draws in a mock shocked breath.  "Oh really?  Does her husband know?"

"Yeah.  And he's thrilled about it.  Loves to watch, actually.  Sometimes he even joins in.  A right randy bastard, he is."

Tonight they are bound for Los Angeles where they will spend the evening at the Four Seasons.  Their friends combined their resources and booked them a king study, not quite as nice as a suite, but at least up to Spike's specifications:  a big bed, little sunshine and plenty of naked Buffy.  They will be back in time to celebrate Christmas day with Dawn and Daniel, even if they will not share in that ritual of waking and finding presents under the tree.  They're not worried about this: Dawn doesn't believe in Santa anymore and Daniel doesn't know who Santa is.

"Daniel was so sweet tonight," Buffy says.

"He was," Spike agrees.  

"I thought at any minute he would start screaming his head off but he didn't.  I looked over at him and it was like he was listening to every word."  She catches a glimpse of her baby, dressed in an infant-sized sailor suit.  Anya is holding him at the moment with Xander looking on, measuring his wife's maternal instincts.  Anya looks perfectly at home with the child in her arms, but Daniel looks a little perplexed as though he is saying to himself, "I'm not money.  Why do you find me so fascinating?"

"Buffy, I've never been so happy in all my life," Spike says.  "And that's saying a lot.  I've been around for a long time.  But this…"  Tears glisten in his eyes.

"I know," she says, thinking she's going to cry as well.  She was so proud of herself, getting through the whole ceremony without leaking a single tear.  Now she feels like she could use one of the tablecloths for a hanky and it still wouldn't be enough.  

"I still am a bit disappointed that you didn't take my name," Spike says with a pronounced pout.

"And I would if Hogan were really your name, but it's not.  It's the name of a TV character."

"But it's my name now.  It was even on the invites."

"And you don't know how many people called me asking, 'Who the hell is William Hogan?  I thought you were marrying Spike?'"

"I'm your William," he says.  "You always call me that."

"Yes, William," she softens, seeing the hurt in his eyes.  "Honey, it's just that, professionally, it makes sense to keep my maiden name.  For now, maybe.  Later, I might---

"Be Buffy Hogan?"  he asks hopefully.

"I could be persuaded to do the name change," she says, tickling him under his chin.  "Besides, I don't know what you're so worried about.  I'm still your wife."

He is not shy about displaying the grin on his face.  "Yes, you're my wife.  Forever."

"Forever," she confirms, placing a quick kiss on his lips.  She holds him tighter, letting her head fall on his shoulder.  "Oh God, Spike.  I never want to leave this spot.  I just want it to be the two of us standing here until the end of the world.  Which we'll fight, of course, and then there'll be another end of the world and we'll fight that too and then another and another.  And after we've fought what we think will be our last one, the two of us will be so tired that we'll have to fall in a big bed and sleep together for about a thousand years."

The song has ended.  It has been over for about two minutes, but no one has let them know.  Now Buffy feels a slight tap on her shoulder.  She spins around and finds Giles standing there, bashfully shifting his feet like a member of the junior high audio visual squad about to ask the prettiest girl at the sock hop for a dance.

"You mind if I cut in?" he asks.

"Sure!"  Buffy says, swiftly shifting into Giles' arm.

Spike puts his hands on his hips and thinks, _So much for forever_.  But having witnessed the levity of Giles' responsibility when the non-denominational Reverend Jim Moonbeam asked "Who gives this woman to be married to this man?", he cannot be too much of an ass.  It took Giles a full minute to respond, "Her Watcher does," and he lifted Buffy's ivory veil and sweetly kissed her on her cheek before taking his seat.  Buffy's Watcher spent the remainder of the ceremony looking as though he wished he had a veil as well to conceal the tears in his eyes. 

"S'all right,"  Spike says.  "I see a sister-in-law in desperate need of a dance."  He kisses Buffy and relinquishes her to the care of her Watcher for the duration of the song.

To lead a better life I need my love to be here 

"This is more my style," Giles comments on the Beatles song playing from the "these go to eleven" amps.  

"Really?  Because it's one of Spike's favorites too," Buffy says.

Giles lips recess back into his face as though he is censoring a rejoinder.

"Come on, Giles," Buffy prods.  "I know you've been dying to say something all night.  You might as well say it now."

"And what might that be?"  Giles asks innocently.

"Oh, about my marrying a vampire.  And if you say that you saw it coming when I was in high school, I'll slap you silly." 

Giles still has no lips.  "It was a very nice ceremony."

"Giles, don't even try being diplomatic.  I hate it when you're diplomatic."

"Buffy, I told you a long time ago that all you will get from me is my support and my respect.  And, obviously, I support your decision to marry Spike or else I wouldn't be here.   And my respect you've got for all time.  You've saved the world too many times for me to be nit-picky over how you choose to live your life."  

But still she needs to know what he really thinks.  His feelings about Spike have no bearing on her affections for her husband, but she suspects there's something Giles is not telling her and she intends to drag it out on the dance floor.

"But you think I've made a bad decision," she ventures, biting her bottom lip.

"No," he says, taking in a breath.  "Not necessarily."

"OK, Giles.  If you were any more opaque, you'd be a cement wall.  And I've been known to destroy cement walls."

Giles stiffens momentarily.  "Buffy, do you really want to know what I think?"

"No.  I want you to give me the Disney version on DVD with plenty of extras.  Giles, I asked you to lie to me at one time, but I don't want that now.  I want you to tell me the truth.  You've been holding your tongue so long I'm surprised you haven't bitten it off."

His lips begin to emerge now.  His eyes take on a paternal glow and he puts a hand to her cheek.  "I think you've married someone who loves you.  Someone who cares for you.  Someone who will look after you long after I am gone.  And that's a great comfort to me, in light of what I have to say to you."  Giles lets his eyes fall to the floor, before realizing that he needs to look her straight in the eye when he says this.  "Buffy, I'm going back to England."

Buffy instantly feels her lungs contract.  Her breathing compromised, she eeks out, "What?"

He takes a breath.  "I'm going back home."

Buffy lets her hands fall from his shoulders.  "But you can't.  Y-you're my Watcher!  You have a sacred duty to fulfill!"

"Buffy, you're married now.  You have a husband and a child.  I have no place in your life."

"What the hell are you talking about?  O-of course you have a place in my life!  Always!  I mean, just because I'm the first Slayer who's ever been married with a child doesn't mean that….Giles, you can't leave me!  You can't!  I need you!"

Giles shakes his head.  "You're a mature woman.  I've seen you through nearly seven years of your life, a record in Watcher lore.  And I'm endlessly proud of you, Buffy.  Your skill, your agility, your enviable one-liners in the face of mounting danger.  You're the dream of every Watcher.  I'll retire a happy man, knowing that you'll be the one to make it to retirement age as well."

This can't be true.  Giles can't be saying good-bye to her.  He wouldn't choose this place, her wedding, to tell her he was going away if he didn't think---

He was leaving her in good hands.

And now she has the moment in which she says to herself, "Ah."

_I want her everywhere.  _

_And if she's beside me I know I need never care_

But to love her is to need her everywhere 

"If you had told me five years ago that you would be spending the rest of your years with Spike, I would have resigned from the Watcher's council and would have taken up a safer job, like coal mining or teaching English to tech prep students," Giles tells her.  "But I think you've done with right thing, marrying the father of your child.  You've been a good influence on Spike.  If you hadn't come into his life, he probably would have continued to cut a swathe through the populace, maiming, torturing and killing victims at random.  But you taught him something about humanity.  You showed him that the lot of us, though we may be deceitful or licentious or Republicans, are worth saving."  Giles takes a long, thoughtful look at his charge as he says, "Spike is a good man.  And if he's become a good man, it's because of you."

Buffy looks to her left and finds Dawn giggling in Spike's arms.  The night Spike was saved from being sacrificed, the three of them clung to each other, holding onto what they might have lost.  When Dawn learned that Spike and Buffy were married to save the world, Dawn's first words were of congratulations and the next were of concern that the dream wedding she planned for her sister might not take place.  Spike and Buffy have spent many days assuring Dawn that the bridesmaids' dresses she chose would be worn and that love doesn't always end in disaster.   Looking at Dawn now, it appears that whatever she has suffered is forgotten as she and Spike snicker over one of their many private jokes.  Buffy hears Dawn say, "Know him?  He was delicious!"  and she understands they are talking about a _Mystery Science Theater 3000_ episode they watched together because this is something that breaks them up into giggles every time they are together and they always tell Buffy that she had to be there.  Spike and Dawn share an unbreakable alliance and Buffy is continuously mystified that a nearly 130-year-old vampire could have that much in common with a barely sixteen-year-old girl.  But whatever they have between them warms Buffy's heart.

As she is looking at them, Spike engages her eyes and smiles, mouthing the words, "I love you," which she repeats in the same manner.

"He was always a good man," Buffy tells her Watcher.  "It just took us all a while to figure that out."

THE END 


End file.
